


Pride's Price

by Exia



Series: What Pride Hath Wrought [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fix-It, Happy Ending, He actually has good reasons, Jaws of Hakkon, M/M, Oh, Romance, Solas is not angsty, Spoilers, and doesn't want to undo them, how about that?, yeah theres those
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 131,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exia/pseuds/Exia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Ellana could be swayed? Could he convince her that there was more to the Dread Wolf than betrayal? That the tales of him were twisted versions of the truth? He'd sworn to them both that he would not enter a relationship with her with lies between them. But if she came to believe... It was an alluring idea, one far too good to pass up. And so, Solas plotted.<br/>20 chapters + epilogue and extra with deleted/alternate scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Solas reached out to the fade, and grasped the edges of reality. Using a skill that few possessed, and backing it with power and experience that none could match, he pulled himself bodily into the fade with little more than a thought. Around him, ephemeral as ghosts, the battle raged on in time so slow as not to be noticed. He continued to run for no more than a few steps before releasing his grasp on the fade and slipping back into the physical world. Time jumped back to normal speed, and the warrior who had been attempting to cut off his head was met with nothing but air. He could travel vast distances in the blink of an eye in such a manner, but contented himself with using it to simply step out of immediate danger. Solas turned to face his aggressor and in a well-practiced two-step motion, he surrounded the man with frigid air, then blasted him with water such that his armor froze in a sudden snap, pinning him in place with his arm mid-swing. Blackwall roared in challenge and crashed head-on into the man with his shield at a full sprint, breaking him free of the ice, but also sending him crashing to the ground. One quick slash of Blackwall’s sword, and the man was dead. Solas scanned quickly for more enemies, but it seemed the warrior had been the last.

“Everyone all right?” Inquisitor Lavellan asked, to a murmur of replies to the affirmative. When Solas failed to respond, she pinned him with a glare.

He inclined his head to her in wordless communication.

She huffed, but relaxed, finally affixing her staff to her back before bending to rummage through the dead men’s pockets. Initially, she had cringed away from such acts, preferring to leave the dead with their dignity. But much had changed in the months since Corypheus had destroyed Haven, and she acted now with far more cynical practicality than she had before. Grunting in satisfaction, she retrieved an elfroot potion and tossed it to Blackwall, who gulped it down gratefully. The second went on to Sera, who drank hers as well, but ended with a wrinkled nose and a shudder at the awful taste. Neither the Inquisitor nor Solas needed one. Lavellan, because she was always well-protected, and Solas because he was far too quick with his fade-step.

“Someday, you will have to teach me how you do that,” Lavellan said, with a meaningful glance at the distance between where Solas stood and where the dead warrior lay.

“It is not a skill that can be taught, _lethallan,_ ” Solas said mildly, “but one that must be possessed from birth. I am afraid that you do not have the proper inclinations.”

The Inquisitor sighed and turned away, leading them out of the dank hallway of Dirthamen's Temple and into the light. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

-

"I'm surprised at you, Solas."

"Hm?" Solas raised his head, from where he's been flipping idly through his sketchbook.

The Inquisitor was looking at him from over the fire, the flickering flames making her expression unreadable.

“In what manner?” he asked, closing the book and sliding it away in a hidden pocket.

“I expected you to ask to stay in the temple. To explore the fade.”

They were at a camp manned by some of the Inquisition’s soldiers, and as such had no need to set watch. Sera and Blackwall had already retired for the night, but the two mages still sat up, enjoying the night air.

“Ah. It would take too long to make a proper search of the fade, the temple is far too old; holds too many memories. We haven’t the time to spare. I will return, after all this is over.”

She cocked her head to the side, birdlike. “ ‘Too many’ memories?”

Solas shifted slightly, where he sat in the dirt, trying to find a more comfortable position. “In places of importance, it is not uncommon for many interesting things to happen over the course of time. A courtroom, for example, is full of drama. Lives condemned and spared. Mercy granted or withheld. It may not be a battlefield with bloodshed, but the mortal interactions draw the attentions of certain spirits nonetheless. It is the same with the temple. It is many thousands of years old, and each event is layered upon the one before, pressed down by the one after. It takes much time and skill to peel them apart, to view each memory as a whole in and unto itself. I could spend decades there, dreaming the memories, learning secrets long forgotten.” He smiled softly at her, sadly. “Such time cannot be spared, our mission is too dire.”

She stared at him for a long moment in silence, the shadows across her face revealing nothing. Then, “You never cease to amaze me, Solas. The things you say...they’re so _obvious._ I mean, _of course,_ there would be lots of memories in a place like the temple. Why didn’t I think of that?” She gave him a wry smile. “I like talking to you, but sometimes you make me feel so slow.”

“Not slow at all, _lethallan._ You simply hold a different world view. We are all confined by our natures. We may strengthen the areas in which our talents naturally lean, seek out others to teach us new ones. But in the end, talent determines where your efforts will be best spent. Such diversification is desirable. You have talents of which I am envious. Your fire glyphs are clean and faster than any I’ve seen. Your Storm is precise and deadly. I have no such skill. My abilities lie more towards Winter and Spirit. We compliment each other well.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Solas wished he could pull them back. There was an attraction between them that he could not afford to feed. A desire for companionship, affection...perhaps more, that could not be allowed to grow. This world was warped, twisted, wrong. It had strayed far from the path, and must be brought back into line. Love would just get in the way, a distraction he could ill-afford to have.

“Oh?” both of the Inquisitor’s eyebrows went up, and her smile turned wicked. “I bet we would compliment each other in other areas, as well.”  
Even knowing it was a bad idea, fully aware that he could not allow her to draw him down this most pleasurable of paths, Solas couldn’t help himself. “Of that, I have no doubt.” He chuckled as her jaw dropped open slightly, shock written upon her face. He rarely returned her flirtations. He continued before she could respond in kind. “What secret have you stolen from Dirthamen’s collection?” he asked, nodding at the object she held in her hands.

She looked at him for a moment longer, contemplating his chance of topics. Then she looked down, turning the object over in her hands. “I don’t really know. It looked important. But not _too_ important. I didn’t want to take some sort of weapon back with us.”

“You do not wish to hold a weapon of Elvhenan in your hands?” Solas asked curiously.

She snorted. “Are you crazy? Why would I? I wouldn’t know how to use it, and would likely only get myself hurt - or killed.”

Solas stood up and walked around the fire towards her, smiling as he did so. Such wisdom she showed. Most people would grab at any power they could find, and find themselves holding the lion’s tail. He settled beside her. Close, but still with a proprietary space between them. He held out a hand, “may I?”

She handed the item over to him, and he looked down at it. The size of both his clenched fists, it was made of smooth grey rock, carved by the rushing of water and sand. It was hollow on the inside, with what looked like a spout on one side, and a flat hole on the other. The top side was ridged, the bottom completely smooth. Between the two, on one side, a gap in the stone ran the length of it from the spout to the hole, allowing one to peer into the interior. He smiled, she had chosen well.

“It is a musical instrument,” he told her, offering it back.

“Really?” she lifted it from his hands reverently, turning it over, searching for a way to make it reveal its secrets. “How do you play it?”

“With breath and finger placement.”

She held it out to him. “Show me?”

He paused. Dare he? _“Ma nuvenin.” As you wish._

He took it from her once again. He cupped the bottom side with his right hand, the smooth rock nestling comfortably in the curved palm of his hand. His left came up, fingers resting between the grooves at the top, his fingertips evenly spaced along the length of the opening in the stone. He brought the spout to his mouth, took a breath, and blew gently into its interior. As with all objects of Elvhenan, it required magic to work properly, and Solas imbued the air with a tinge of his magic. Unseen runes lit up along the length of the instrument, a softly glowing gold the color of sunrise.

The sound that emerged was quiet, so as not to wake their companions. A low note, powerful but sad, warbling gently in the air. Then it rose, sliding through the register to a higher, sweeter sound. A bird’s trill upon the morning air, hope blooming in a heart. Then down again in a sorrowful glide, telling of loves lost. Loneliness joined the chorus, its high wail a haunting counterpart to sorrow’s deep thrum. The dual sounds wound around each other, feeding each other, each strengthening the others pain. Ellana’s breath grew short as she sunk into the sound then - up again the music soared sharp and high, tickling hands upon ribs, a mischievous titter, and she giggled at the sensation. Solas lowered the instrument, the colors died, the sound faded away.

Ellana gasped as the sensations abruptly cut short. “Wh...wow. That was…”

“Elvhenan was a world of physical delights, its people sensuous and free with affections. Their music reflects this reality.” He offered it back to her, eyes unreadable.  
Ellana didn’t know what to think. “What is it called?” She made no move to take it back; she wanted to hear those notes again.

_“Rodhe’sil,”_

Ellana frowned, trying to pick the word apart. She shook her head, “I don’t know that one.”

“ ‘ _Rodhe_ ’ is taste, or flavor. ‘ _sil_ ’ is thought, or mind. It is a poetic language, so _rodhe’sil_ would be more accurately translated as ‘flavor of the mind’,” Solas told her. “A phrase that makes no sense in the Common tongue. It requires understanding of nature of the instrument itself. As you experienced, the music is more than sound, it is thought and emotion as well. It is whatever the musician puts into it, whatever they desire the audience to experience.”

Ellana thought of the dark notes at the end, the sorrow and the loneliness. He was so aloof most of the time. But she’d always suspected that he held a deep sadness to him. She saw it most when they were in the ruins, surrounded by the ashes of Elvhenan. He was deeply affected by the things he saw in the fade, felt them as strongly - or even stronger - than the things he experienced in the waking world. Perhaps he felt at times that he was elvhen, rather than elf. That might explain his attitude towards the Dalish.

She hated to see any of her friends upset, learning to be Keeper had instilled in her a need to care for those under her command, but Solas held a special place in her heart. It wasn’t love - not yet - but it so easily could be. But she fought it, even as she strove to draw his attention. It would hurt all the more if she came to love him and he rejected her. She...cared...enough for him that she didn’t want to just let it go, but he was so difficult to read most of the time. This instrument had revealed more about him in five minutes than she’d gotten in three months of conversations. He revealed his thoughts only rarely. But sometimes...sometimes he opened up a little, and she saw the man underneath the stoic facade. And _that_ man was one she could come to love desperately.

These bursts of openness were the whole reason she kept trying. He never - not once - told her to back of. Never said no. If he had, she would have left him alone, retreated behind professional curtesy. But though he was slow to respond, he was responding. And so she felt confident in her pursuit.

She leaned towards him, placed one hand upon the _rodhe’sil_ where he offered it to her, but instead of taking it, she wrapped her fingers around it - and his hand. “It’s beautiful,” she told him, her voice soft and intimate. “You play it well. The _sounds,”_ she thought of the the tickling trill. “You’re more mischievous than I thought; you should show that side of yourself more often.” She grinned at him, and it seemed as if a spark from the fire caught flame in his eyes.

He swayed towards her, as if drawn by her proximity and she wondered if he was going to kiss her. His free hand came up, moving as if to tuck a strand of hair behind her ears. But her hair was cropped short, failing to provide him with an excuse to touch her. He did it anyway, and she sucked in her breath as the tips of two fingers followed the line of the top of her ear to its crest, then down and around the bottom to reach her neck. He followed it, stopping only when he encountered the fabric of her tunic. She tilted her head slightly, inviting him, and his face abruptly closed.

“Have a good evening, Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor Lavellan stared in disbelief as he pulled his hand from hers, allowing the _rodhe’sil_ to fall to the ground. He stood without another word, stepping into the tent he shared with Blackwall without ever looking back.

-

She went looking for him a few days after they returned to Skyhold, and found him in the rotunda. He looked up at her entrance, taking in the pained look upon her face, and the untidy stack of papers in her hands.

“You seem distraught,” he told her, placing his quill on the table and folding his hands. “Is there any way I may be of assistance?”

“Yes. Maybe. I hope?” She moved around the table, and he moved his papers out of the way so she would have a clear space to set hers down.

He ruffled through the top few layers, reading a word here, a phrase there. There seemed to be no particular pattern or rhythm to the topics. He looked up at her wordlessly. She chewed her lip for a second, before she began to speak, pacing back and forth a few steps, her hands gesturing with her words.

“Only Keepers and their Firsts and Seconds are taught written El’vhen’an. It is a complicated language, so much depends on context, and, well. You know what I mean.” She looked at him for confirmation.

“I know its complexities, yes,” he said with dark eyes. “But _why_ are only the mages of a clan taught the written language? Is that not the _opposite_ of the Dalish desire to preserve what was?”

Lavellan blew out a breath and rubbed the bridge of her nose with a thumb. “Believe me, I agree with you. I argued with my Keeper about it before my magic manifested. And then again when she caught me teaching my friends _after_ it manifested. She tried explaining it to me; why only mages are allowed to learn. But it never made much sense. Something about the words themselves being magic and only one possessing magic will ever really understand them…”

Solas didn’t even bother to hide his horrified disbelief. “It is a language. Like any other. All that is required to learn it is a willing mind. It seems to me that your Keepers withhold information to keep themselves in a position of power.”

Lavellan stiffened at the insult. “That is _not_ true!”

“No?” Solas folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back in his chair, watching her with appraising eyes. “You have a different explanation for the deliberate and unnecessary withholding of a basic skill?”

Her jaw worked in outrage as she struggled to come up with a reason that was less damming. “Well, because...we travel a lot! And it takes a lot of time and effort to teach just the First and Second. The Keeper leads the clan - they don’t have time to teach reading and writing and magic and make all the decisions necessary to keep the clan in good health!” She said the last exultantly, sure she’d hit upon a valid excuse.

Solas’s eyes glittered with triumph, and Lavellan’s heart began to sink. That was the face he made when he was about to cut Sera down to size.

“And the refusal to allow the First and Second to teach the rest? How do you explain _that?”_

“I-don’t…” Lavellan slumped. “I don’t know, Solas. It’s just taboo. I don’t know _why_ the Keepers won’t let the others learn. I just know it isn’t a power play. At least not for _my_ Keeper. Dashanna isn’t like that.” She sighed. “I didn’t come here to argue with you about clan politics. Or Dalish taboos. Or whatever it is we’re arguing about. The fact is, I _agree_ with you. I think _everyone_ in the clan should know how to read and write in El’vhen’an.” She gestured at the pages in front of him. “I’ve been collecting these. I had more - many more - in Haven. But they were lost.”

He looked down at them, “what is your intention?”

“I want to _translate_ them. Create a beginner’s book for learning El’vhen’an, like the humans have for the Common tongue. I want to pass them to _everyone._ The elves in the alienages, the Dalish in the plains and woods, the humans in their towns. I want copies of the originals and translations everywhere. I want to gather this knowledge, and then spread it to the world - so it can never be lost again.”

  
Her eyes began to shine with passion, and Solas watched in wonder as his dream fell, whole cloth, from her lips.

“I _hated_ the Inquisition when it started. Hated them for accusing me of all those murders, for threatening my life, and yours, and Varric’s, when we were only helping. Hated them for labeling me the Herald of Andraste - a woman and a religion I do not follow! But then we went out into the fields and streams, and I saw people that needed help. So I helped them. Because I could. Because it was right. And they started to _listen_ to me. Me! A savage knife-ear from the wilds! And I realized that I might make some _good_ come out of all this. _Real_ good, not just a return to the status quo.”

She stopped, and Solas could not help but stand to his feet, moving closer. Drawn by the wonder he felt in her light. Her passion. Her. “And the papers?”

“We’ve gone to how many ancient elvhen ruins? Found how many artifacts? More than I have ever seen or heard tell of in all my life. _This_ is the history my people search for. _This_ is the knowledge that has been lost! I won’t have it broken and discarded in the hands of those to whom it does not belong.” She paused, looked around the room for the first time, as if checking to see if they were alone.

Understanding her desire for secrecy, Solas summoned a barrier, large enough to encase them both, hardening its sides so that sound would not pass through. “Please,” he gestured, eager to hear her next words, “continue.”

She looked up, traced a finger along its edge in wonder. “Marvelous,” she breathed, distracted for a moment before she turned to look at him again. “I want to make a home for my people. Our people. Like Halam’shiral, but better. Like Arlathan, but strong enough to stand against the humans. I want a land of our own. With houses that don’t have wheels, and towns surrounded by walls for protection, not exclusion. I want elves ruling elves. A place where we can be blacksmiths and ambassadors, and farmers and yes, even servants if that is our desire. But where we can _choose.”_

“Has this not always been the Dalish desire?” Solas felt compelled to point out.

“Yes!” she hissed in excitement. “But this is the first time I think it can actually happen! Look at how much influence the Inquisition has! How much power! We are in a stronghold based in Orlais, but we owe them no allegiance. We are a power unto ourself. And if we were to declare ourselves independent - a nation sovereign - no one would argue!”

Solas recoiled. “You want to make the _Inquisitio_ n your new Halam’shiral?”

“No,” she laid a hand on his arm and he fought the urge to throw her off. “I want to use it to create something new. Enlea’sileal.”

_To spark wisdom_ , Solas translated numbly in his mind. The name of her new land?

She continued, unaware of his thoughts. “I want Josie to speak with the nobles of the lands. I want Leliana to whisper in their ears. I want Cullen to...well. Perhaps not Cullen. Spilling blood for this is not a good idea. But I want to carve out a place. Form alliances with Ferelden and Orlais and Nevarra - even Tevinter! - so that there will _never_ be another Exalted March. And I want to use the Inquisition to make it happen. But I don’t want the Inquisition to actually _be_ this new country. It’s purpose is too important. But if I have this power, this potential, am I not _stupid_ if I fail to recognize it? To jump at this opportunity which may never come again?”

  
Solas’ knees almost buckled at her words. Instead, he staggered backwards, to slump in the chair he’d just vacated, his breathing shallow, eyes wide with panic.

“Solas?” she asked in concern, kneeling at his side, hand to his head. “Solas, what happened? Are you alright?”

“In-Inquisitor,” Solas shook her hand away, licked suddenly dry lips. _“Lethallan._ You don’t understand - you can’t - what it means to me, to hear you say these things. Every night, I dream of Elvhenan, of the strength and grace our People use to possess. And when I wake, it is to _this.”_ His hand waved around, and Lavellan knew that he spoke of the wandering Dalish, the elves locked in servitude in the towns. “Is it any wonder I prefer my dreams? But you...I saw the potential your position holds. But I never thought you would recognize it. Or that you would be willing to use it if you did.” He looked at her, eyes piercing, and it was like he was a different creature. No longer the self-contained mystic, this was a man of raw passion, given that which he sought for so long. Ellana thought him beautiful. “I share your desires. If there is anything, _anything_ I can do to aid you, all you need do is ask. All the knowledge I possess, all that I am, is entirely at your disposal.”

Ellana was stunned. She hadn’t suspected that he held such fire inside of him. He’d never seemed so animated, so alive. And such a promise…from him, it meant everything. She was grateful, so grateful. But this was too much, too intense. She didn’t know how to handle a Solas that vibrated with such passion. She had not come expecting to lay her heart bare, and she certainly had never expected that he would do the same. Her opinion of him was rapidly shifting, and she did not yet know what form it would take. So she smiled, patted his arm, stood, and leaned against his table. Stepping back from the raw emotions of the moment.

“All I wanted was a few lessons in El’vhen’an, Solas.”

His gaze shuttered, and she knew he was doubting her previous words. She couldn’t let that stand.

So she leaned in, close enough that her lips brushed his ear. “For now,” she said, and as she pulled back, she saw him shudder.

Once again, his eyes burned. But the fire was banked - for now. “Yes,” he said, and she knew he understood.

-

Night fell quickly in the mountains, the sun sliding away behind brilliant snow-capped peaks. Skyhold was bathed in the brilliant reds of sunset for a few brief moments before darkness took her over. Fires were lit to combat the dark, but the shadows were deep, and the flickering flames seemed to hold no sway over them. The men huddled next to them, ostensibly for heat, but they could not hide they way they scurried quickly from fire to fire when movement was necessary.

Solas found it amusing.

He walked through shadows and light, without distinction between the two, headed for the rotunda where he had made his temporary home. There, he moved to the small table he’d set up in the middle of the room and laid out in careful arrangement the various plants and soils he had acquired. He was almost done, with one last panel of the mural left to go. Much of the wall still remained blank, but that was as it should be. The Inquisitor’s tale was far from complete. He spent some time preparing his colors: grinding herbs to a powder, pouring them into the soil, adding water to make it paste, and finally, infusing it with enough magic to give it a touch of the fade. A link between two worlds, telling her story to the visitors of the room, as well as the spirits that gathered to watch it shimmer into existence on the other side.

He moved to the next section in the wall, vibrant red in his hands. He used no brush for this, and instead dipped his fingers into the thick paste before crouching and applying it to the wall in careful strokes. A few minutes later, he felt Cole appear behind him, but he did not pause in his work. A few more hours, and this section would be complete.

Neither spoke as those hours slid slowly by. Solas because of his work, and Cole for the feelings the paint drew out in him. The spirit missed the fade, with its ever-changing landscape, and came here to reconnect with it - if only by proxy - as Solas gently pressed his paint into the nothingness of the fade, changing it into a tangible reality.

Upon their initial arrival to Skyhold, while the tail end of the survivors were still straggling in, Solas had drawn the spirit aside and offered to return it to the spirit world. And though he could see that Cole was tempted, the spirit had eventually declined; pulled too strongly by the pains of the people. Cole was content to sit as Solas painted, feeling the weak waves of the spirit world wash slowly over him. He would need to return eventually, but for now, this was enough.

Solas finished the panel, and felt Cole leave as soundlessly as he had arrived. The spirit was not one for pointless words; Compassion did not act without cause, and Solas accepted the spirit on its terms, never attempting to change it from its purpose. He put his paints away, washing his hands with water from the basin, tidying up his area. Lavellan had a tendency to say his murals appeared as if by magic, which was a half-truth if it was anything at all. He indulged her by painting only at night, while the rest of the hold slept, and by disposing of any unused paints at the end. It required him to make fresh ones each time he desired to work, but that cost him nothing more than time, and that he had plenty of.

It was now late enough that most of the hold would be asleep, but Solas was nothing if not careful, and he took a casual midnight stroll. Thirty minutes later, he entered his rotunda from the wall-side entrance, passed through to the stairs….and never made it to the top.

-

If fade-stepping involved insultingly short distances, Solas was now doing something that could only be described as fade-walking. Solas reached inside for his sense of self, and gave it a twist, warping his self identity from a man - to a wolf. As he expected to shift, so he did. A massive white wolf, with eyes of ice. He shook himself, particles of snow falling from his shoulders, snowflakes forming with each of his breaths. The Dread Wolf stood in the fade, and was home. He took off running, his canine body eating away at miles that didn't exist, charging through the waters of ephemeral streams, and bounding among amorphous clouds. Outside time, outside cares, he rushed and played, always headed towards his ultimate goal.

As was mentioned in countless mage books, time passed differently in the fade. This was where men came to dream; mages to be tempted, tested; and where Solas came to play. All things in the fade are connected, and the fade is a reflection of the mortal realm. Travel here was easy; a mere thought, a stroke of imagination, and he was miles and miles from where he had begun, without ever having traveled at all.

Solas slowed from a sprint to a trot, the snowdrifts behind him slowly sinking away; his head swiveled, ears pricked alertly. It was around here somewhere. A twist of imagination, and he was a man again; a trickle of power, and he was free of the fade. A simple trick for him, childs play. But one that was beyond the ken of most - and one that Corypheus coveted desperately.

He glanced around, noting the spot they had camped in weeks ago already being overgrown by vegetation, and the position of the sun so far from Skyhold. Minutes had passed for him, while he had traveled a hundred miles in the fade. Turning away, Solas slipped into the mostly hidden entrance of the temple, finally allowing his emotions to show. Dirthamen had once been a close friend.

He walked slowly, trailing a hand over the bare patches of stone walls, his feet calf-deep in stagnant water. There was power here, if little of it. Enough for Solas to feel the essence of his old friend; enough for the memories to pull hard. If he were to sleep here, to dream...he might dream of his own memories, events he remembered played out as if on a stage. It was no chance that the Dread Wolf statue was displayed so prominently at the entrance. Tricks and secrets were brothers, after all. As were Fen’Harel and Dirthamen, in ages past.

Dalish lore told the story of Falon’Din and Dirthamen as if they were brothers - twins who went everywhere together. They told a tale of Falon’Din carrying a deer to the afterlife, and Dirthamen following after a brief period of being lost, during which he acquired his companion-servant ravens Deceit and Fear. Solas had laughed until tears had run when he’d heard the tale - it had earned him the ignominious honor of being the first flat-ear to be kicked out of a Dalish camp for mirth. Because, while Falon’Din and Dirthamen had indeed gone everywhere together, it was _not_ because they were brothers. They were lovers. Dirthamen was _Fen’Harel’s_ brother, while Falon’Din was the only child of a set of tavern owners who never knew how high their son rose.

Solas could restore this temple, if he should so choose. It would take him a few weeks - he had not that power he once possessed and would require time to recover spent magics frequently - but it was within his talents to do so. But for what purpose? There were none, save he, who knew the old rites. None at all who kept the secrets. Whatever the high priest had known had long since been lost to madness when Lavellan woken him from his tormented slumber. No. Restoration would serve no purpose, save that of the mirth of creating a suddenly restored temple when next Leliana's people came to inspect this place. And while he was briefly tempted, Solas had more important uses for his time and efforts. He was here to remember, and bear witness.

Still, the longing was there, and it was enough to cause him to reach into the fade once more. It remembered what the temple did not, and he drew the two close, overlaying the shimmering image of pristine halls over the overgrown ones before him. It was temporary, but beautiful. Solas maintained enough of an awareness of his physical realities to avoid tripping over tree roots and stumbling over fallen stone. But beyond that, he immersed himself in his new reality. The walls gleamed with subtle luster, the murals depicting coquettishly the secrets contained within them. Candelabras, tucked into corners, drove the gloom away, and tapestries stirred in the light breeze. He wandered from room to room, absorbing the feel of a world gone by. There were no people, he had denied the spirits access when he laid down the illusion, but the spaces breathed all on their own; seeming to speak of books just closed and rooms just vacated.

He found small treasures wherever he turned. Here was a scrap of a poem he’d read long ago, there a hint of a song half-forgotten. The books on the shelves did not exist, but he pulled one down anyway, and read the secrets contained inside. Most were pointless, tales of infidelity and betrayal by peoples long gone, that he had never known. A few were charming, shy secrets of love blossoming in the dark; of guilty pleasures nevertheless indulged. None told him anything about Corypheus and he returned the book to the shelf.

  
Another room held artifacts, ancient and forgotten, items of power thought lost to the ages. As he studied the block of wood that would one day become his orb, left unfinished by an accolade who liked to whittle, Solas could not help but laugh bitterly. These object _were_ lost to the ages. Only the fade remembered them now.

He wandered on, casually tucking a sprigh of gnome’s beard into his pocket even as the space he had pulled it from was occupied by a lit candle in the illusion. For all that this was Dirthemen’s temple, and devoted to secrets of all kinds, Solas had not really expected to find much to help him here. He had _hoped_...but little had gone to plan since he had awoken. Still, it eased something inside of him to wander these halls; breath the air of the People again. So much had been lost while he had slumbered - won and lost again until they were less than a shadow of who they were. Until they no more resembled the Elves of Elvhenan than the humans did.

But he had hope, now, where before there had been none. Ellana Lavellan saw the good she could do from her position, and was taking steps to make that potential a reality. She was dedicated to the task of learning El’vhen’an. She brought a stack of papers with them everytime they went out into the field, straining her eyes to read by the campfire light, her lips shaping the words as she struggled. He would need to teach her how to create a magelight.

He translated the texts she brought him, and she was stunned to find that most of them were simple nothings. Shopping lists, receipts. The one with gilded edges was an invitation to a party. There were a few that held higher importance. A treatise on the worship of Anduril, a writ of laws. But they, like the books hidden in this temple, revealed nothing about Corypheus. She was thrilled with the progress they were making, her primer for El’vhen’an growing quickly. But Solas was frustrated. These things were _simple._ Small. There were bigger things that he could be doing. Magics and research that would make larger, _tangibl_ e change. But he hadn’t the depth of strength to achieve them.

The most burning madness of it all was that Solas could _feel_ his power just beyond his reach: tangled in the rifts, twisting in the breach that was closed but not sealed. And burning in the palm of the Inquisitor. Fully half of it was still locked in the orb; which was more than enough for Corypheus to be hideously dangerous. But the parts that _weren’t_ ….were still not to be his.

Frustrated with himself, for Corypheus, for his doubts, for things both ancient and new, Solas dropped the illusion, pushed the fade away, and stared down with impassive eyes at the ruin of his brother’s temple. _This_ at least he would not hide from. This was _his_ fault. His, and no others’. The Dalish were right to hate him, even if their reasons were false.

He turned away from the destruction he had wrought, twisting his reality so that his next step fell into the fade. Once again the wolf, he raced back to Skyhold. _Tarasy’lan Telas,_ in the language of his People. The place where the sky is held back. Appropriate, given the nature of their enemy.

He returned to himself and slipped back into the stairwell just as he heard the door to his rotunda open.

“Messer Solas?” the person in the other room called.

  
Solas did nothing to hide the sly smile that played across his lips as he entered the room. Sure enough, one of Leliana’s people stood inside his room, looking around the corner of the door that lead to the battlements. No doubt they had just come from the stairwell he was emerging from. It was a game he played with Leliana and her people. She desired to know where he was at all times, and he delighted in denying her.

“Yes?,” he called blandly and watched as the agent spun about in surprise.

“Messer! Where have you been?” the agent asked in frustrated annoyance. No doubt they had looked for him all night.

“Here, of course. Where else would I be?” Fen’Harel was not known as the Trickster for nothing, and while it was a blatant lie, it was delivered with such innocent confusion that the agent actually doubted herself for a moment.

“Messer…”

“Solas!” The door from the great hall banged open and the Inquisitor breezed in with a cheery smile and a cup of something hot in her hand.

“Yes, Inquisitor?” he asked, and heard the agent sigh and slip away.

She paused, eyes glittering. “Have you been teasing Leliana again?”

Obviously not what she had intended to say, but he could not fault her observational skills.

“I have not seen our spymaster in several days,” Solas assured her, an answer that neatly dodged her question.

One corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk, before she hid it behind her cup as she took a sip. “That’s not exactly an answer,” she said, her voice dry with suppressed laughter.

“How were your dreams?” he asked.

She chuckled and leaned one hip against his table. “Empty. Boring.” She shook her head. “I envy you, seeing the fade as you do. I’ve tried viewing it your way, trying to draw out the memories of Skyhold while I sleep. But,” she shrugged, taking another sip of what he could scent was jasmine tea, “all I get are benign spirits, or demons trying to tempt me. And I’ve had enough of _those_ to last a lifetime.”

Solas chuckled and moved farther into the room, moving towards his small travel bag where he kept the things he was willing to admit owning. All his truly precious things were stored in the fade.

“I see the wisps visited you in the night.”

Solas glanced up to see her studying the completed panel. “Indeed. I am fortunate to have received their grace.”

She threw him an amused glance over her shoulder. “How do you do this? It’s amazing.” Her voice was soft, full of something he dared not call awe, and she reached out with one hand, almost brushing the paint and plaster he’d applied so carefully the night before. “It’s like,” she paused, trying to put words to impressions, “like you’ve drawn out what was already there, revealed something the walls have always known.”

His eyes softened, and he padded barefoot over to stand next to her. “One of the things I learned in the fade,” he lied. “It is how the ancient elvhen produced their art. I am no master, but...I have replicated their skills as best I am able.”

“I wish I could see it,” she mused, a far away look in her eyes. “Arlathan as it used to be. Elvhen, as they used to be. The world before this,” she made a vague gesture with her hand, “happened.”

  
Solas paused. He could show her, of course. It was nothing for him to twist the fade into shapes, and it would not be too much more effort for him to invite her into one of his dreams. But...while Arlathan had certainly been beautiful, there was a deep blackness to its shadows, and his vision of it was forever colored by the things lurking in the darkness; he did not want to expose her to more sorrow. “I have seen some things while I dreamt. I could share them with you, if you so desire,” he offered instead.

She turned to look at him, and her eyes shone. “You wouldn’t mind?” she breathed.

“No, _lethallan._ I would not mind.” He gestured for her to take the lone chair at the table, while he moved to stand before it. He prefered to pace while he talked, a facet of his personality that she was well aware of.

She moved towards the chair, but instead of sitting, she stood behind it, grasping its high back with both hands. “I’d love to stay and listen, I really would. But…” she trailed off, biting her lip.

“But you are the Inquisitor, and have duties to attend to. I understand.” And he did. Once upon a time, it had been his job to lead an army, to make the decisions that moulded the world. Ironically, from this very place.

“I-yes,” she flushed in shame.

She had put off duties to speak to him, had sought him out before all others; Solas was absurdly pleased. “Another time, then.”

She smiled, picked up her discarded cup, and left.

-

He returned to Dirthamen’s temple the next night, and the next. But now, in dream only. His body remained in Skyhold, laying on the settee in the rotunda. He enjoyed torturing the Nightingale, but he dared not push too far or her mild suspicions would flare. And besides, he did still need to sleep on occasion. This was an advanced technique that allowed him to recreate the temple from memory, filling in the parts he did not know with a link to the part of the fade that _did_ remember. He would be drained when he woke, maintaining the connection over such a long distance was tiring. But it was worth it to search the temple without suspicion.

The fade books on the fade shelves might not hold the secrets he could use, but they held secrets nonetheless. And a thread of carefully nurtured optimism had him reading them anyway. If he survived and got his orb (and thus, power) back, then he would hold these secrets, and would be able to share them with the Inquisitor and whoever came to live in the land she was creating. For now, he was focused on the retrieval of his power. But a small part of him insisted that he consider what would happen should he not retrieve the orb, even if Corypheus was defeated. He could not decide if his identity as Fen’Harel would help, or hinder him when that time came. He was one of the “Creators” that the Dalish prayed to, but only in an effort to appease him, to keep him from hunting them as he had hunted the other gods. He was simultaneously amused and annoyed at the tales of him that had survived. They knew he had locked the “gods” away, but no reason was given beyond spitefulness. He had supposedly spent the intervening centuries cackling to himself in glee for the tricks he’d played on them.

They did not know the truth. And while he was willing to tell them...eventually...he was not sure how he would be received. He could prove that he was the Dread Wolf, they still had tales of his frost-encrusted coat, but he was also the Trickster. They may not believe what he had to say after, simply because of that alone. It might be best if he remained Solas, an elf - rather than elvhen - who learned what he knew from the Beyond. Then again, he was the only god they had left...even if he was no god at all…

The thoughts went round and round in his head, making reading impossible. He folded the book closed in his hands and replaced it on the shelf before allowing the fade-image of the temple to drift back into a half-formed dream. Shifting into a wolf, Solas threw his head back and howled. An announcement of his presence, an invitation to play. Mortal dreamers would not hear him, mages who were close-by might, if they were not caught up in other things, but it was not to them that he called.

Spirits of joy and mischief answered him, becoming wolves as well; their coats were silver, their forms smaller, but it did not matter. They bound up to him, their leaps graceful and long in ways no true wolf would manage; that did not matter either. Pride hovered on the edges, Solas banished it with a thought, it had no place here.

He crouched low, tail wagging in the air, and Mischief slunk up behind him, trying to nip his tail. But the Dread Wolf was clever, and this was not the first time he’d played this game. He spun around, catching Mischief on the ear, earning a yelp. A pink tongue lolled out of a snowy muzzle in silent laughter, before it was put away to be replaced by an impressive snarl. Mischief, understanding, yipped once before dashing away, and the Dread Wolf took off in chase, with Joy racing alongside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Champion arrives at Skyhold - but not alone.

Solas was pulled from the fade by a wail, a scream, voices crying out in the dark. He was on his feet and primed for battle, a barrier against his skin and a spell upon his lips, before he came truly awake. Even as he recognised his surroundings, saw that he was alone in the rotunda, Solas kept the barrier in place. Because the screams remained.

 He drew the defensive energy close, a soft vibration against his skin. A few moments more, and he slung his staff against his back. Moving on silent feet, Solas cloaked himself in shadow and slipped through the door to the battlements. The screaming in his mind grew louder, and Solas watched from his vantage point as Varric came down the steps along the wall, meeting two figures as they approached the gate guards. A hushed conversation, and the guards let the two figures in. Varric lead them up the stairs he had just descended, following around the path to the back of the tavern. The wailing faded as the figures departed, though it never truly fell silent.

 Solas knew who had come to Skyhold.

 He stepped quietly to the left, padding on silent feet to the stairs that lead from the battlements down to the space the merchants had claimed as their own. The guards did not see him, and Solas smirked to himself as he got in place before Varric returned, leaning against the wall in the shadow of the tavern. He moved, a shift of his weight from one foot to the other. It wasn’t much, but he knew it would be just enough to alert the dwarf to his presence. Varric's surprised jump was immensely satisfying.

 "Shit, Chuckles! Don't scare a man like that! What are you doing out here?" Varric demanded, hand to his furry chest.

 Solas got right to the point. "I want to speak to him."

 "Who's that, then?"

 Varric was good, Solas would give him that. He gave no indication that he had any idea what the mage was talking about. But Solas has played this game for aeons, and he knew the moves to achieve his goals. In this instance, blunt honesty would work best.

 "The lyrium hurts him, always. Burning lines under his skin. I know, because the silent screams pulled me from the fade. I can silence them, or bring them into harmony. Either way, the pain will be gone." He paused, allowing Varric to absorb that. Then, "tell him, Master Tethras, that if he desires, I can also remove them entirely."

"Why do you care so much, Chuckles?" and Varric's voice was full of suspicion as Solas had never heard before. "You've never met."

"I am not heartless. My aid costs me nothing but time, and I am able to ease the burden of a noble man. I will give the three of you time to consider. Tell them whatever you will of me; I will be in the rotunda come morning." Solas bowed slightly, and walked away.

"I make no promises!" Varric called after him.

-

  Varric watched Solas walk away, that mysterious aura of his wrapped so tightly around him Varric wouldn’t have been surprised if the women came out of the woodwork to throw themselves lustily at his feet. Honestly, the man was _made_ to be written into some sort of shabby romance. Varric had once teased Fenris about women having little broody babies in his honor. The comment wasn’t far off the mark for Solas, either. What was it about not-Dalish-not-alienage elves that made them such perfect models for lusty books?

 Varric pondered the question as he sauntered back to his room.

 Part of it was the ‘refusing to fit a mold’ attitude they had. Unique was thrilling. Fenris came off as having secrets to be uncovered, while Solas shared his information freely. But what information it was! Long forgotten tales of the world that no-one else could even discover, told in a voice that warmed with passion...even Varric had found himself enraptured when Solas spoke of his travels in the fade. And yet, both men held themselves back from getting personally closer to the people around them. Both were so tightly controlled, it spoke of an inner passion just _bursting_ to get out.

 Maybe that was it, then.

 The idea that there were hidden depths, burning passions simmering just under the surface of…

 Varric opened his door, closing it soundlessly behind him as he went to his notebook. He scribbled his thoughts down, pausing once more as he caught up with himself. He stared down at the page thoughtfully, tapping his quill against his chin.

 “Passion simmering under the surface of...’his control’ is too common. He’s not a boiling pot of water,” he murmured aloud, trying to think through the phrasing. “Maybe something about how there was no need for control unless it was to control _something?”_ A pause. “Nah, too trite and overdone.” He tilted his head side to side as he thought. “How about...being the one to pull his attention from the fade would be….would be…. _bah.”_ Varric threw his quill down, the small amount of ink left on it splattering on the paper. “Too cliche. I’ll think of something. I’m going to bed.”

 Because there was no way he was going back to disturb Hawke and Fenris. Not until after the sun rose. He’d seen the way they were looking at each other as he’d closed the door, and he knew that it was a damn good thing he’d put them in a room far away from everyone else. Hawke never did learn how to be quiet.

 -

 The next morning, after breakfast, Varric made his way to the room where he’d stashed the hold’s newest guests, a basket of carefully wrapped food slung over one arm. He knocked, loudly, then turned and leaned against the wall, giving them ample time to put their clothes back on. After about five minutes, he knocked again. “Rise and shine,” he called out far too cheerfully, fully aware of how much it would irk the elf. “Time to stop being lazy. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

 Finally, the door opened a crack, and one green eye, half-closed in defense of the bright light, stared down at Varric. The dwarf gave his most obnoxious grin in response.

 “It’s an evil imp,” Fenris told Hawke, voice thick with sleep. “Possibly a demon.”

 “Kill it,” Varric heard Hawke’s muffled reply.

 Varric clicked his tongue in disgust. “And here I was kind enough to bring food. See how you treat me? I guess I’ll just keep all this freshly baked bread and sharp cheese and roasted ham all to myself.” He bowed, mainly to hid the grin he couldn’t suppress, said, “have a good day,” and turned to walk away.

 Before his leading foot had even hit the ground, he felt a hand grab the back of his coat, and Varric chuckled as Fenris hauled him into the room, slamming the door against the early morning light.

 Hawke was sitting on the bed, yawning hugely and running the fingers of one hand through the short hair on her head, ruffling the strands farther. Fenris stepped around Varric, snagging the basket as he did so, and brought it over to the small table against the wall, liberating the items and laying them out. Hawke gestured to Varric, and the dwarf went over to her. With her sitting, and him standing, they were at just the right height for her to sling an arm around his shoulders and drop a smacking kiss onto his cheek.

 “Oh, trusty dwarf,” she sing-songed. “How thou liftest my heart with thy libations. May your chest forever be hairy, and your wit forever sharp.”

 Varric laughed, and shook her arm off. “Now, now. You know my heart only belongs to Bianca.”

 “I know,” Hawk said, standing and walking the two steps to the table, where she flung herself down into the second chair with abandon. “And how my heart bleeds to hear it.”

 Fenris, sliding a piece of ham into the pocket of bread he made, rolled his eyes. “The two of you are sickening,” he announced, snagging a piece of cheese and aligning it with the ham before taking a huge bite.

 “Don’t be jealous,” Hawke chided him playfully as she opened the bottle of cider Varric had thoughtfully included with the meal. “You’re the only elf for me.”

 Fenris, mouth full, only rolled his eyes again.

 Varric laughed and hopped up on the bed, his legs short enough that they swung freely. Such was the fate of a dwarf in a human-sized world. “All jokes aside,” he told them. “I had an interesting meeting last night, after I left you.”

 “Oh?” Hawke asked, eyes razor sharp as she paused, a piece of cheese on its way to her mouth.

 Varric motioned for her to continue eating. “Nothing bad. Possibly good, actually.”

 Hawke and Fenris relaxed from their wary, frozen positions and resumed their meal.

 “There is a mage here, an elf. Neither Dalish nor from a Circle. Never lived in an alienage, either. He met me by the tavern last night.” Varric looked at Fenris. “He says he has a way to help you with your lyrium.”

 All the muscles in Fenris’s chest and arms tensed at once. “What?” he asked dangerously.

 “I didn’t tell him, I swear!” Varric assured him, hands up in surrender. “You know I left the personal shit out of the book. Nobody new knows about the pain from your marks. He says he heard them when you two came in last night. Apparently they woke him up.”

 “He...heard them?”

 Fenris and Hawke shared a significant look.

 “That mean something to you?” Varric asked, understanding that there was more to the story than he’d been told.

 Fenris shifted uncomfortably in his chair, dropping his eyes to his food. He poked a bit of ham back into place. “The brands...sing,” he admitted finally.

 “Scream, is more like it,” Hawke said with a disapproving frown. “Moreso when he uses them.”

 “What, like the red lyrium?” Varric squawked in alarm.

 Fenris shrugged, and took a bite of his sandwich, clearly unwilling to answer the question. Varric turned his attention impatiently to Hawke. She took a bracing swig of the cider before she answered.

 “They don’t speak in any intelligible way, from what I understand,” the other rogue told Varric quietly. “It’s more like…” she sighed, clearly unwilling to speak her next words. “It’s more like a scream of agony or rage, than anything else. Amplifications of his own emotions. But only the unhappy ones.”

 “And you never thought to mention this?” Varric asked crossly.

 “I was branded young,” Fenris said, pinning Varric with his eyes. “Still an adolescent. I’d had them for ten years before I escaped, and then another three before I met you. If it was going to corrupt me like the red lyrium, don’t you think it would have by now? They don’t _talk._ They just hurt.”

 “Hmm,” Varric rubbed his fingers over his jaw in thought. “You have a point there. Then I guess Chuckles might actually be on to something. He mentioned teaching them to ‘sing in harmony’. Sounded bonkers at the time. But now…” Varric trailed off significantly.

 “You trust this mage?” Fenris asked pointedly. He’d come a long way in his outright dismissal of all mages. But he was still likely to distrust them on sight unless there was a word of support from one of his friends.

 “He’s saved my life on more than one occasion.” Varric told them bluntly, knowing that now was not the time to prevaricate. “He approached the Inquisition on his own, before it was even really formed. He offered his services, knowing he was risking his freedom as an apostate, and kept the Herald alive. Then he stayed, even under threats of execution, and has fought harder than almost anyone to seal the breach and defeat Corypheus. So, yes. I trust him. I wouldn't have even mentioned it if I didn’t. If he says he can help you, then I believe him.” Varric paused, then felt compelled to continue. “He’s also in the running for Broodiest Elf, has a wicked superiority complex, and can’t seem to resist the urge to correct someone if he feels they’ve said something ‘inaccurate’. His mere existence is liable to piss you off.”

 “Well,” Hawke said, finishing the last of her food. “With that charming description, how can we not meet him?”

 “After you’ve talked to the Inquisitor, please,” Varric said. “So I have time to hide when Cassandra comes after me.”

 “Is she a threat to you?” Fenris demanded.

 Varric felt a warm spot spread in his chest. Such a question was like an outright declaration of love and loyalty from the tight-lipped elf. “I don’t _think_ she’ll kill me. But I did tell her that I had no idea how to get a hold of you two….and I might have said that you’d split up.”

 Hawke snorted a laugh. “And she _believed_ you? Did she actually _read_ your book? Even there, it’s obvious that I’d never leave Fenris’s side.”

 The look Fenris shot Hawke was so full of love and devotion, Varric couldn’t even stand to look at it. He turned away, coughed, and said, “well, Hawke. I always was the best liar of all of us.”

 “Too true, my dwarven friend. Too true.”

 -

 Cassandra was understandably unhappy about the sudden appearance of the Champion of Kirkwall. From what Solas had heard, the Inquisitor was required to step in. And even so, a table was flipped, nearly landing on Varric’s head. But things calmed down, Cassandra took her anger out on a training dummy...and Varric appeared in the rotunda. With guests.

"Master Tethras," Solas said, standing upright and folding his arms behind his back.

 Varric sighed and muttered to himself, "this is not a good idea." Then, louder, "Solas, this is Hawke and her husband Fenris. Hawke, Fenris, this is Solas. The mage I told you about."

 The human rogue stepped forward hand outstretched and a blinding smile on her face."Nice to meet you," she said, shaking Solas's hand. “Varric said that you could rival Fenris in brooding skills."

 "Is that right?" Solas asked, with an amused glance as the dwarf as he released the human's hand.

 "I speak only the truth," Varric demured.

 "Indeed." Solas returned.

 All attention turned to the tattooed elf who stood silent in the doorway. Fenris hovered, not moving, taking in the outline of the room and the mage who claimed knowledge of his lyrium. Varric trusted him, a point in his favor. But he was a mage, a strike against.

 "I shall admit to reading Varric's book," Solas spoke into the quiet. No need to specify which. "Other than that, he has not spoken of you."

 "Then how did you know?" Fenris growled, his voice loud in the small room.

 "I heard it," Solas told him, voice quiet and ernest. "When you arrived last night. Discordant voices screaming in the dark."

 "Why do _you_ know about it?" Fenris snarled, suspicion taught in his tone. "You have experience?"

 "With lyrium only,” Solas assured him. “I've never seen it used in such a manner, though I can guess at the method."

 "No offense, Chuckles, but that doesn't make much sense." Varric put in. "You won't even _take_ lyrium. How does that make you an expert?"

 Varric's words brought an intense focus to Hawke and Fenris' features.

 "You won't take lyrium?" Fenris asked, his face fierce with attention.

 Solas paused for the briefest of moments, but it seemed a screaming admission to the married couple. "No," he said.

 "Why?" Fenris demanded.

 "You know why," Solas replied softly.

 "Say it," Hawke growled.

 Solas sighed minutely and moved across the room. He opened a chest nestled up against the end of the settee, withdrew a few vials of lyrium, glowing blue, and placed them in a line on the table in the middle of the room. He studied Fenris for one long moment, then removed two vials, and replaced it with a third.

 "I will not drink lyrium because I can hear the songs inside. I can feel the essence of the one who went into its making. Though I know they ceased to live long before they turned to stone, I cannot force myself to partake." Solas gestured at the bottles on the table. "These are the voices that are in you."

 Fenris looked at the table, Solas, and finally Hawke. She nodded shallowly, and Fenris swallowed. Then he approached the table. He ran his fingers along their sides, listening, until he reached one near the end. He picked it up with shaking fingers, squeezing so hard he ran the risk of cracking the vial. Gentle fingers pulled it from his fingers before he could do damage. Fenris looked up and found the mage standing far too close. But before he could react, the other elf was already moving away.

 "This one is the loudest."

 It was not a question, but Fenris answered it anyway, "yes."

 "You said you could help with the pain." Hawke put in.

 "I will need to study the markings closer. But from what I see...yes." Solas twirled the vial in his fingers. On a different man, the gesture would have been nervous. "There are three options: drain the lyrium containing the different voices and replace it with lyrium from this one," he held up the vial. "Drain the lyrium entirely, or," Solas set the vial back in the line, folding his arms behind his back once again, "teach them to sing in harmony."

 "You can take the lyrium away entirely?" Fenris asked, voice shaking.

 "I can," Solas frowned, "but that is not the option I expected you to select."

 "You know me so well?" Fenris snapped.

 "I know you love her," Solas threw a hand out towards Hawke aggressively and watched the other elf tense for battle. "I know the idea of being beholden to another is abhorrent to you. I know you wish to care for yourself in all things, and that your safety - and hers - is paramount. Knowing all this, _why_ would you wish to lose such a powerful advantage?"

 Fenris growled, took a prowling step forward, but Solas only scoffed and folded his arms over his chest.

 "Lie to yourself if you must, fen'len. But do not lie to me. You hate how you got them, you despise the way you look. But you will _never_ choose to be rid of them. The independence they have granted you is _far_ too valuable."

 "Then why even offer?" Fenris demanded.

 And Solas softened. "Because the greatest sin in this world is to remove another's choices."

 "You...really believe that, Chuckles," Varric said, stunned.

 "I do."

 Hawke spoke up, "why do you care?"

 Solas was silent for a long moment. But when he spoke, he offered them the truth. "You are not the first escaped slave I have helped free themselves from the last of their shackles."

_"I am no slave!"_  Fenris roared.

 Solas only looked at him sadly.

 Hawke approached Fenris, hoping to calm him. But the warrior shook her off, pacing around the perimeter of the room, running gauntleted fingers through his hair. Solas relaxed completely against the table, his body language calm. His breathing didn't change, even as Fenris' pacing took him beyond Solas's range of vision.

 "I am no slave," Fenris growled in Solas's ear, then continued around the circle.

 "You cling too tightly to that word, fen'len. Do not let it move you so."

 "What is that you call me?" Fenris came around, snarling in Solas's face. His rage a startling counterpoint to Solas's calm.

 "Young wolf. You've not yet cut your adult teeth." Solas eyed him sneeringly. "I'm beginning to think you never will."

 Hawke flushed an angry red and moved to step in. But Varric's hand on her arm held her back. If there was one thing he had learned about the fade-walking elf, it was that he knew how to talk to people. Usually, it was to insult them. Varric knew him to be slippery, never telling the whole of any story. But he also was never surprised by anyone’s reactions, always able to read tells. He maneuvered them into thinking and saying exactly what he wanted of them. Probably how he’d survived as an apostate for so long. One of these days, he would ask the elf to play Wicked Grace with him. Maybe then he’d be able to peer inside the mage’s head. For now...

 "Look at them, Hawke," Varric insisted. "I've never seen Fenris so engaged. And Solas knows _exactly_ what he's doing."

 "He's gonna get himself killed," Hawke objected.

 "He's gonna help," Varric insisted.

 "You don't know me!" Fenris roared.

 "You don't know _yourself."_ Solas' tone was icy cold.

 Fenris let loose an inarticulate sound of rage, flying at the defenseless mage with hands glowing blue. But Solas stepped through the fade, becoming insubstantial as a fist passed through where his heart had been. Fenris followed him step for step, the power of his lyrium allowing him to keep pace with the mage. They flitted about the room, nothing but incomprehensible blurs to the two in the room watching.

 As time passed, Fenris’s anger slowed, the game of cat-and-mouse allowing him to cool his head. He eventually came to a stop, no longer attempting to kill the mage. Solas reappeared on the other side of the table, staring into the warrior’s eyes. Both of them were breathing hard.

 “You _aren’t_ a slave,” Solas said into the quiet, and Fenris tensed, but did not attack. “More than most I’ve met, you’ve shed the persona of subservience. But the word still pricks you, and it should not. You hold onto the pain - why?”

 Fenris did not answer, because some things could not be put into words. Pain is real, pain reminds you that you’re alive. Pain does not lie like pleasure can.

 “Untrue,” Solas said, and somehow he was right beside Fenris, that glowing vial of lyrium in his hand, pressed against the lines on Fenris’s forearm where he hugged himself. “Pain lies, too.”

 The music in his skin lit up at the touch of the bottle, the voices in his mind singing a chorus, drowning out all, calling the pain. Fenris sucked in a breath, but did not move. Solas began to hum, stepped closer, there was a small gasp from the onlookers as Fenris bowed his head, pressing his forehead against the mage’s. One hand, glowing faintly blue, rose to tangle in the white hair at the back of a tattooed neck. The music was that of the lyrium, the humming a melody without rhythm. The one voice got stronger, the others falling back, but never fading. The pain receded with them.

 The humming turned to singing, the words in El’vhen’an and none save Solas understood them. But Fenris could _feel_ them, the cadence of the language resonating in his bones. Now Fenris was the one humming as Solas sang, the sounds soft, barely audible to any but themselves. The voices stuttered, cease their cries.

 Fenris lifted his head, stared at Hawke over Solas’s shoulder as the mage massaged the back of his neck. The warrior’s eyes were dark with shock. For though his lyrium was ablaze, he felt no pain.

 “H-how,” Fenris asked in a hushed whisper.

 Solas finished the song before he replied. The pain came back in a wave, and Fenris gritted his teeth. It was so much more _potent_ now, for having been absent.

 “Music was a part of life. Breath and motion in the song. A discordant melody is painful to the ears, a sound you cannot ignore. If they are in harmony, there is no pain.” Solas stepped back slowly, releasing Fenris from his embrace. “Will you let go of the pain?” he asked, and Fenris knew it was about more than the lyrium. _Will you release your hold on the word ‘slave’?_

 “I can’t ignore what was done to me,” Fenris snarled, but it was a soft sound without heat.

 “I do not expect that you should. But you flinch at shadows that are not there.”

 “I know that,” Fenris snapped. Because he hadn’t. Not really. He thought that he might, now. It was like walking into a hushed room. Sometimes, it was because they were talking about you. But sometimes...it was just a natural lull in the conversation. Solas was telling him to curb his paranoia, accept that not every order was an attempt to remove his free will, not every ‘slave’ was a reference to him.

 Solas stepped away completely, taking the lyrium with him. He gathered up all the bottles, put them in a small satchel, and handed them to Fenris, who took them with an expression of confusion.

 “Listen to their voices,” Solas told him kindly, all efforts to enrage completely gone from his manner. “Decide if you like the one, or the chorus better. They will be what you hear when you call for the power.”

 “And otherwise?” Fenris asked, gesturing at the now-dormant tattoos.

 “They will be silent. Or so quiet as to make no difference. No pain - ever.”

 Fenris took on a look of wonder. To be alone in his head for the first time in his life, no screams… He walked towards Hawke with a dazed expression. She looked back and forth between Solas and her husband. She’d heard none of the conversation since Fenris had stopped trying to kill the mage.

 “Are you alright?” she asked him as he slung an arm around her waist and buried his face in her neck.

 He clung to the bag tightly. “I think I will be.”

 The couple left, likely a retreat to their room, leaving Varric looking at Solas pensively.

 “How did you do that, Chuckles? I’ve never seen Fenris so mad at anyone he didn’t end up killing. And that singing thing...just what happened here?”

 Solas sighed and relaxed, utter weariness entering his posture, now that Fenris had left. “He has come far down the road away from being a slave. But he would not accept my help without being pushed. Would not let me close enough to try, if I had not enraged him.”

 “Yeah, not the smartest thing I’ve seen you do.” Varric said with a chuckle.

 “There is a clarity to the mind, once such anger has passed. His resentment of the word is strong. One of the strongest I’ve seen. If he cannot let the pain of it go, he cannot release the pain of the lyrium. They are connected.”

 “Yeah, but how did you do it?” Varric insisted. “He let you _touch_ him. _Nobody_ touches him but Hawke. And even that took her six years.”

 Solas went around the table, took a seat in the chair, and rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers, trying to push the headache away. “She has laid a stronger foundation than you know. He would likely accept a pat on the back from you. At this point, the lack of touch is habit, nothing more.”

 “Damn, Chuckles. Just, damn. You played him like a fiddle. How many times have you done this before?”

 Solas tilted his head back, eyes closed wearily. “I’ve lost count.”

 “So you _did_ do more than wander around sleeping in ruins! Good to know. You’ve got layers, Chuckles.”

 “As do we all, Master Tethras.”

 -

 Solas rarely sought out the Inquisitor, generally content to allow her to visit him whenever the time permitted. But he had a request to make of her, and he wanted to do so before he spoke to Fenris again.

 He caught her as she was passing through the Great Hall, from somewhere important to somewhere else equally valuable of her time. Even so, she slowed when she saw him, a happy grin sliding across her face.

 “Solas,” she said with pleasure. “Fancy meeting you here. You rarely come out of your cave.”

 “Hardly a cave, _lethallan,_ with so many exits and so high a roof.” Solas said softly, stepping close.

 She shifted, turned towards him, lowering her voice to grant them a measure of privacy in the middle of a crowded room. “Something wrong?”

 He shook his head. “No. Just a request for a...friend of a friend.”

 One of her eyebrows went up, and she pursed her lips to hide her grin. “Oh? And who are these friends of yours?”

 “I believe you have met the Champion and her husband.”

 The Inquisitor gasped, then chuckled. “Who? I’m sure I have _no_ idea who you’re talking about.” She shook her head, eyes shining. “Aren’t we so glad Varric stuck around?”

 “Very much so,” he agreed with gravitas, eyes sparkling with humor. “But I believe I can help _him,”_ Solas said meaningfully, “remove the constant pain.”

 She frowned, suddenly serious. “Is he injured?”

 “The...tattoos.”

 She understood. “And you can help with that?”

 Solas nodded, choosing his words carefully. “If he agrees, which I believe he will, I can sing the voices into harmony. But I will need your _rodhe’sil_ to do so.”

 “Sing...what do you mean?”

 And Solas grimaced. He’d never wanted to explain this to her, never wanted to force such a choice upon her. “Come. I will explain as we walk.” He lead her back through the hall to her quarters, and they left the door open behind them in a pointed statement as they ascended the stairs. “Lyrium is magic, yes? Liquified into a potion, but its raw form is that of rocks that are dug from the Deep Roads by the dwarves.”

 “Everyone knows that.”

 “Have you ever stopped to consider why there is lyrium? What, exactly, makes up its composition? How random veins of rock have come to possess so much magic?” Solas asked, stepping out onto her balcony, hands clasped behind his back.

 “Well...no. Lyrium is just one of those things. Like tress. I’ve never questioned their existence before. They just…” she shrugged. “Are.”

 “Indeed. But in this instance, the source of the magic in lyrium is also the source of the warrior’s pain.” Solas turned, leaned on his arms on the balcony, and Lavellan joined him. “You know from the tales that the elvhen entered uthenera when they tired of life.”

 She looked at him from the corner of her eye, and nodded cautiously. The tales of the Dalish were quite a source of contention for them.

 “I have learned in my wanderings that there are actually two different types of uthenera.” He paused, but she remained silent. “The first is the one you know: the unending sleep. The other was meant to be less permanent. A long period of rest, but one that was expected to be woken from. As it wasn’t a death, their bodies were cared for, placed in stasis. Famine killed after all, as did dehydration. And so to survive the sleep, they cast spells over their bodies to allow their life force to dwindle to a small spark, one that could sustain their bodies for up to a thousand years.”

 “But those that didn’t want to wake?”

 “No such spells were needed. In fact, they were purposefully avoided. A long, quiet death without pain or fear. But the world was saturated with magic, and their deaths were very slow. Magic, without a mind to guide it, is a force for chaos and change.” He smiled, “and _with_ a mind to guide it, it is even more deadly. Left alone for years as the body that housed it dwindled, the magic was…” Solas paused, trying to articulate something nebulous. “As the body died by inches, the magic was compressed by...time. By the rock around the body. By more magic as new bodies were placed where its host had been. A rock at the bottom of a landslide is crushed by the power and weight of those above it. So, too, was the magic crushed with each new elvhen who sought the unending sleep. They did not blend, for each had their own sweet song. They sang of their lives, less than life but not quite dead. They joined with their surroundings, molding, adapting, shifting as magic does.”

 “Lyrium is _elvhen!”_ Lavellan gasped, horrified. “Are they alive?”

 “No.” Solas brought one hand up, palm down, and waved it back and forth like a scale. “They are what is left of elvhen. But they are not alive as you and I. They have no thoughts, no consciousness. It is the painting of a person dead, or echoes of music in a hall. The source is gone. But the impression of their lives remain.”

 Lavellan’s hand came up to cradle the base of her throat, her face green with nausea. “And we drink them.”

 “It is magic, _lethallan,_ nothing more.”

 She barked a humorless laugh. “Obviously you don’t think so, or you’d drink it!”

 He turned to face her, so she could see his sincerity. “There is nothing wrong with drinking lyrium. I avoid it out of respect, nothing more. They are not sentient, they are not alive, they are not aware. They _are not.”_ He stared at her, willing her to understand. “Lyrium is liquid magic. If I were to find myself in dire need, I would partake without hesitation. I have simply found myself lucky enough to not need it.” He sighed. “I did not tell you this to cause you distress. It is, in fact, why I have avoided the topic thus far. But you must know now, to understand what I will be doing. You will feel it when I sing the lyrium to harmony. Every mage who has ever taken lyrium will feel it, though it will be weaker the longer it has been since ingestion.” He paused. “Templars will likely be unaffected, but I cannot be sure.”

 “How long since ingestion before the mage feels nothing at all?”

 “I...am uncertain. I have never attempted this before. I doubt that a few hours would be enough. But,” he shrugged, “a few days? A week? More? I cannot know.”

 Lavellan nodded. “All right. I appreciate the warning. I’ll give the other mages some excuse. You said you need the _rodeh’sil?”_

 Solas nodded. “It will assist in teaching the voices harmony.”

 She turned to go inside, returning a moment later with the instrument. “Maybe you should just keep it. Seems a shame to have it and not use it, and I certainly can’t get anything out of it. I’ve tried.” She placed it carefully in his hands.

 He smiled, cradled it gently, traced a finger along the invisible runes. “I could teach you, if you like.”

 “That would be nice.”

 -

 They approached him the following night, as Solas translated tomes in the candlelight. He lifted his head, watching Fenris walk almost eagerly up to him. “You’ve made your decision, I see,” Solas said, leaning back in his chair.

 “I have a few questions, first,” Fenris said.

 “Of course. I will answer as best I am able.” Solas got up, turned his chair around, and gestured at the settee that doubled as his bed. “Would you care to sit?”

 “Thank you,” Hawke said, tugging on the back of Fenris’s tunic as she passed behind him, encouraging him to join her.

 Fenris did, after a pause, and Solas leaned back in his chair, fingers laced casually over his stomach. He would let them make the first move.

 “You said you could replace all the voices with just the one,” Hawke said when it became obvious that Fenris would not speak. “How exactly would you go about that?”

 “It...would likely be extremely unpleasant. I would need to first drain the lyrium from the other voices, a process that - I would imagine - would be as painful as their acquisition was. Then, I would need to replace them with more lyrium from the main voice. Again, hideously painful.” He paused. “There is an advantage to doing it this way. With only one source, your abilities would activate more quickly, the power flowing more smoothly. You _might_ even be slightly more powerful.”

 Hawke and Fenris shared a glance. “And the harmony?” he asked.

 “That is the course I would recommend. There would be no additional pain, and it would be accomplished much faster. Granted, you miss the opportunity to become more powerful but...may I inspect the tattoos? I can give you a better estimate at the likely power increase.”

 Fenris very carefully did not look at Hawke as he considered. He absolutely _loathed_ to have his tattoos touched. Everyone he met always tried to reach out and trace them, as if they were nothing more than pretty lines on his skin. The contact always made the pain flair. But the mage would need to see them, he’d already admitted that he would have to study them. Without saying a word, Fenris pulled his tunic up off over his head.

 Solas stood, and came towards them. But before Fenris could tense at the sensation of being loomed over, the mage dropped to one knee at his side. Not a subservient gesture, for which Fenris was grateful, but the move nonetheless put his head lower than Fenris’s. Which made something feril inside the warrior relax. Solas shot him a brief, amused glance, as if he’d sensed the emotion.

 The mage lifted his left hand and brought it up, fingers spread, glowing faintly blue, and brought it towards Fenris’s chest.

 Unable to help himself, Fenris tensed.

 But Solas did not touch him. His hand hovered, more than an inch away from skin, and he moved it slowly back and forth, the lyrium in the brands only tingling as the magic swept over him. Solas began to hum. At first, it was the song from the day before, the melody of the dominant lyrium. But when his hand moved over Fenris’s right shoulder, the music changed. Lower, slower, but with sharp high points, this one extended from the peak of his shoulder to halfway down his forearm. The next switch was at his fingers. Surprisingly, each one had its own tone. Across his stomach now, and back to the second sound, then his left hand, with the third and fourth, then up...his elbow was the sixth, while his upper arm a mash of the second, fourth, and fifth.

 Solas dropped his hand, the glow fading away. He shook it out once, twice, then held it out, palm up in a clear request. “May I?”

 Fenris hesitated only briefly before placing his hand in the mage’s.

 Solas studied it, tracing the lines with his eyes, turning the hand over gently in his grip. Then he sat back on his heel, released Fenris’s hand, and gazed at the Fenris’s chest with analytic eyes. Then he sighed.

 “I am loath to say this, but the lyrium is impressive. Whoever did this clearly knew what they were doing.” Solas raised his other hand, the blue glow returned, and he traced the lines of Fenris’s legs. This time, through his trousers.

 “What makes you say that?” Hawke asked. Solas had his eyes closed, Hawke saw, when he turned his head towards her to answer.

 “The lyrium follows the lines of mana that flow through a mage’s body. Few know them, or could replicate them so readily on a body that has no veins to follow. It was skillfully done, the lines clean and sharp. The only flaw was in using lyrium from multiple sources.”

 “Does that make this easier, or harder?”

 Solas crouched, waving his hand carefully over Fenris’s feet. “Neither. It simply is.” He stood, gestured for Fenris to put his shirt back on, and settled into his chair once more. “There is quite a bit of off-chord lyrium, but not as much as I initially thought. Your right hand, though it contains the largest number of different songs, is already mostly in harmony. You have been teaching them on your own. Given a few more years, I imagine you might manage it without assistance.”

 Hawke shot Fenris an impressed look. “You did say that it doesn’t hurt as much now as it did when you got them.”

 “Yes,” Fenris admitted with a stunned look, “but I just assumed that was because the skin healed, not because they were...getting along.”

 Solas smiled. “I am even more certain now that teaching them harmony is the correct path. To drain the lyrium would rip the song asunder. Better to continue the tune, than change keys in the middle.”

 Hawke groaned loudly. “Must we continue with the music metaphor? You two are killing me.”

 Fenris chuckled, but obligingly shifted topics. “When can we do this? Do you need any special equipment?”

 “I already have what I need,” Solas told them. “But it would be best to wait until tomorrow. I have warned the Inquisitor about the effect singing the lyrium might have on the mages, but I am uncertain as to if she managed to speak to all of them. If we can, I would prefer to leave the hold, or at least chose somewhere quieter than the rotunda, before we begin.”

 Hawke nodded. “That sounds reasonable. How many people will be there?”

 Solas hesitated. “Truly, there need only be the two of us - Fenris and I. But I imagine that the both of you want Hawke there as well.” They nodded. “To the same end, I would appreciate it if you were to allow the Inquisitor to attend.”

 “She seemed a decent sort,” Hawke told Fenris. “But you should know that she’s a mage.”

 Fenris grunted. “Truly, they are everywhere.”

 Solas smiled kindly. “I only ask that you allow her to observe. I can guarantee that she will not interfere in anyway.”

 Hawke looked at Fenris. “Your call, love.”

 Fenris froze, clearly waffling between the two options. Finally, he blew out a breath. “Yes, all right. Let the mage come. But no more! I will not be a side-show.”

 Solas was instantly insulted. “Absolutely not! I did not ask you to allow her attendance so that you may be made a spectacle of. I asked so that, should someone else with such brands emerge, she will know how to help them as well. Nothing more.”

 “You would not do it yourself?” Hawke asked without blame.

 “Who knows what the future will bring?” Solas held up both his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I certainly do not. Is it not better for such knowledge to be shared, spread as far as possible so all may benefit from it?”

 Hawke cocked her head to the side, like the bird she was named for. “You are an odd man, Solas.”

 “I fail to see how.”

 “Mages do not help people. Not without some sort of ulterior motive,” Fenris asserted.

 “Ah.” Solas steepled his fingers, amusement hiding in the depths of his eyes. “You wonder what I gain from this.” He was silent for a long moment. “I have told no other this story. I would appreciate discretion on your parts.”

 The couple nodded.

 Solas blew out a breath. “A long time ago, I had a lover. She served a king to which I owed no fealty. But that did not matter to either of us. We were together for years...she had a child.” Solas’s eyes softened with fond memory. “My beautiful little girl. Adhela was my daugher. Eirlana her mother. For a very brief time, we were happy.” Solas’s gaze darkened. “But there was a war. I fought, and lost. Everyone lost. Eirlana’s king fell, and the conquerors claimed the conquered as slaves.” He spat the word with more venom than even Fenris used. “I was well-known for my refusal to bow to any king or queen, and as punishment for my ‘treason’ against the winners, my lover and daughter were hidden from me. It took...too long...to find them.” Solas stopped speaking, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and held it.

 Fenris and Hawke, hands clasped tight together, shared a look full of pain.

 “Solas,” Hawke began awkwardly. “We understand. You don’t have to-”

 Solas’s eyes snapped open. “But I do.” His gaze burned where it touched them. “They plucked my daughter's eyes out. Broke her spirit. Her mother was raped to death. I ended my Adhela’s suffering with my own hands.” He breathed deeply, and Hawke expected fire on the exhale. “I have never been a slave, Fenris. But I know something of the suffering you faced. I get the same thing out of helping you that I got out of helping every other slave. A small bit of vengeance against those who so violated those I loved best.”

 “What did you do to the ones who took your family?” Fenris asked with a growl.

 And Solas’s answering grin was full of sharp teeth and wicked glee. “They lived a long time in my tender care.”

 Fenris’s laugh was full of dark satisfaction. “A fitting end.”

 The two men locked eyes, and a sense of understanding passed between them.

 “Tomorrow is soon enough for me,” Fenris told him. “Bring your Inquisitor, and let this be done with.”

 “As you wish.”

 -

 “Are you sure he wants me there?” Ellana asked Solas as he lead her towards the gates of Skyhold.

 “I asked that he allow your attendance, and he agreed.”

 “You-” Ellana stopped walking in surprise, then hurried to catch up when Solas did not. “You asked for me to be there?”

 “Are we not gathering as much information for the People as we can? This is new magic, as far as I know. Should it not be documented as all the rest?”

 Ellana laughed, shaking her head. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

 Hawke and Fenris were waiting by the gates, the latter shifting from foot to foot in excited agitation.

 “Where are we going?” Fenris called as soon as the approaching duo was within ear’s reach.

 Solas waited until they were closer before responding. “There is a sheltered grotto not far. We will be shielded from the elements, but far enough to hopefully not bother the mages stationed here. It is no more than a few minutes walk.”

 “Then let’s _go,”_ Fenris urged.

 Hawke, standing behind Fenris, did her best to suppress her amusement. But even so, Ellana had to bite her lip and turn her head to avoid rousing the warrior’s ire. Luckily, Solas had no such issue and he stepped by Fenris, face placid as if they were simply going on a stroll. Fenris fell into step beside him, with the women bringing up the rear.

 Hawke gestured at the board with the inkstand on the top, and the sheaf of papers pinned at the sides. “You kidnapping items from the Ambassador?”

 Ellana laughed. “Hardly. She had this one made for me. I’m always running around making notes on this or that, and it’s become quite useful. But I don’t use it with a candle. The fire makes me nervous around the paper.”

 Hawke raised one eyebrow. “Don’t you use fire?”

 “I do,” Ellana admitted. “But I’m much better at blowing things up than the delicate control it would take to reduce a flame.”

 “You give yourself too little credit, Inquisitor,” Solas’s voice came floating back.

 Ellana rolled her eyes, but did not respond.

 True to Solas’s word, it was only a few minutes before they came upon a dense stand of pine trees, their boughs knotted tightly together. It was a little difficult to push their way past the prickling branches, but once they did, they found the interior surprisingly warm. The ground was carpeted with needles, free from snow, and the sky was blocked by the trees, leaving the light low and intimate.

 “Oh wow. I didn’t know such places existed!” Hawke said with delight, spinning in a circle her arms outstretched.

 “My clan call them _etheman,_ for ‘safe place’. They sheltered us in the worst of storms.” Ellana told them, stepping daintily through the needles, feet utterly silent.

 “What do you need from me?” Fenris asked Solas, uninterested in the women’s chatter.

 “Take off your shirt,” Solas instructed. “After that, I ask only that you do that which feels natural.”

 Fenris did as instructed, tossing his tunic at Hawke who caught it deftly with one hand. The two women stood side-by-side, Hawke with the shirt pressed to her chest, and Ellana with sharp eyes, and quill poised to write.

 Solas stepped towards Fenris, the _rodhe’sil_ in one hand and the other coming up to rest against the center of Fenris’s chest, where the lyrium markings swirled tightly. He closed his eyes, listening. Then he removed his hand, brought the instrument to his lips, and blew a single, long note. The _rodhe’sil_ lit up in blue runes as it had the first time he played and Hawke’s lips opened in a silent gasp of wonder. Then Solas’s hand was back on Fenris’s chest, and he was listening again. A second note, higher and sweeter, before Solas lowered the instrument and shook his head.

 “This will take too long,” he said. “We will need to adjust.”

 He offered the _rodhe’sil_ to Fenris, who took it without a word. Then Solas deftly stripped out of his own tunic, leaving both men standing in the needles in their trousers. Hawke laughed in delight, and Ellana dug her elbow into the woman’s ribs.

 Fenris seemed to understand what Solas was aiming for.  This time, he was the one to reach out, to place his hand on the mage’s chest in the same place. Solas nodded, took the _rodhes’sil_ back, and, with eyes tightly closed, listened and played the tune of the lyrium.

 Hawke recognized it as that of the most dominant lyrium. A deep thrum, slightly raspy, like the fur of her mabari when rubbed against the grain. The sound swirled around the clearing an almost-presence of another person. When Solas lowered the instrument, the music continued, whispering through the branches. Hawke could see sections of Fenris’s brands light up, across his chest and abdomen, following the lines up his throat and over his chin. Faint light through his trouser legs, and a curling line along the outside of his left leg also ignited.

  _The lyrium that matches the song,_ Ellana thought, trying to be as analytical as possible. But what was happening was almost too beautiful, and she was having a hard time distancing herself from it.

 Fenris’s hand shifted slightly, Solas closed his eyes, and a second song joined the first. This one was softer, kinder somehow. A gentle trill, fluttering in the middle between high and low. Sections of Fenris’s left arm lit up, as well as almost the whole of his back. His right knee blazed to life.

 Another pause, then a third song. And a fourth. Seven songs in total, until all of the brands burned with their inner fire. At some point, Fenris’s hand had fallen from Solas’s chest, the warrior’s head tilted back and his eyes closed.

 Ellana and Hawke were struggling not to clap their hands over their ears. For while each song was beautiful individually, together the formed nothing but a mass of noise that grated against nerves like sandpaper.

_This is what he feels all the time,_ Hawke thought, and her admiration for her husband only grew. _This_ is what he suffered for years. _This_ was the price he paid for his power, the pain he suffered to fight in her defense.  And he’d never once complained.

 Solas lowered the _rodhe’sil,_ and though it still dangled from the fingers of one hand, he seemed to have forgotten about it entirely. He tilted his head, listening intently.

 Then he began to sing.

 At first, it was just more noise, and Hawke and Ellana gritted their teeth against this additional assault. But slowly, so slowly, his voice gained in volume and strength, while the musics around seemed to diminish. It was a new tone, one not heard before, and yet it was hauntingly familiar. It was deep like the first song, fluttering like the second. It had the high notes of the third, and the choppy staccato sections of the fourth. Each song had elements of itself woven into this new one and the similarities seemed to lure them in. Solas sang the song over and over, never seeming to need to pause for breath, and with each revolution, the surrounding din quieted as each voice took up his tune.

 From beyond the music another voice rose to join the chorus. Fenris’s deep baritone supporting Solas’s more liquid notes. It wasn’t until then that Hawke realized Solas was actually singing with _words._ It must be the elvhen language, but she’d never heard Merril speak it with such fluid sensuality. She tore her eyes away from the men and leaned over to ask the Inquisitor if she understood what was being said. But before she could even open her mouth, Ellana shook her head almost violently back and forth. Hawke frowned, but withdrew, taking the order for what it was.

 Solas continued to sing in words, while Fenris did so without. But a few more repetitions, and he too was singing in elvhen. A language he had never spoken before. Hawke couldn’t seem to get the shape of the words, even as she had heard them more than a dozen times now. But it seemed almost effortless for Fenris as he sang in beautiful harmony with Solas and the rapidly diminishing voices.

 Then Solas dropped out, closing his mouth and stepping back to look at Fenris in something that could only be described as pride. Fenris continued on, drawing in the last of the songs to his chorus, completing the ritual on his own. Slowly, his voice faded, and a peaceful hush fell over the grotto as the lyrium dimmed.

Fenris lowered his head, opened his eyes, and felt no pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like many, I scoff at the idea that a Hawke who romanced Fenris would go anywhere without him. The idea for the lyrium is not my own, but I liken it to oil. Dinosaurs once upon a time, now a liquid we use as fuel. 
> 
> As far as the fight in the Rodunta between Solas and Fenris...ugh. I'm not happy with it, but can't tell what's wrong. If you figure it out, let me know?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas takes Ellana to Haven, and they are interrupted by a most curious guest.

Hawke and Fenris stayed at Skyhold for only a week before heading out. Before they did, Fenris stopped by the rotunda.

Solas looked up as the door creaked open. “Ser Fenris,” he said, his brows lifted in inquiry. “Are you experiencing complications?”

“No.” Fenris moved into the room, his gaze intent, a bag dangling from his hand. “I am here to thank you.”

“I do not need-” Fenris held up a hand, and Solas trailed off.

“You have done something for me I had never dared hope for. Not in all my years of freedom. I never even thought to search for a way to stop the pain,” Fenris said, quietly but with heartfelt emotion. “There are not enough words in any language for the gratitude I feel.”

Solas smiled, stood to his feet, and came around the edge of the table, hand outstretched. “Give me your hand, Ser Fenris. And let me call you friend. That is gratitude enough for me.”

The corner of Fenris’s lips quirked up in the tiniest of smiles. Then he reached out and took the mage’s hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

They shook once, then stepped away.

“You are leaving now?” Solas asked.

“Yes. We may have a lead on Leliana’s Warden problem. We met one by the name of Stroud during the Qunari coup in Kirkwall. Hawke kept in contact, and now he may be able to give the Inquisitor some of the answers she is looking for.”

Solas nodded. “Then I wish you well. _Dareth shiral._ Safe journeys.”

Fenris gave him an odd look. “Not Dalish, but you speak the language? No comment about the Dread Wolf catching my scent?”

Solas laughed, full-bellied and rich. “I do not believe the Dread Wolf cares for such things, and I learned the language in my dreams of the fade.”

Fenris’s gaze turned wary. “Be careful, friend, of the things you meet there. I may not be a mage, but I know something of the temptations you face.”

The quirk of Solas’s lips was full of hidden things. “I am no Feynriel, to be tempted by the lies of demons. I have long since mastered my dreams.”

“You are somniari, then? Who taught you? Feynriel had to flee to _Tevinter,”_ Fenris spat the word, “to find someone to teach him.”

“I taught myself,” Solas said. “I was lucky enough to encounter a spirit of Wisdom, first. It taught me the dangers I faced. I was well-equipped to face the demons long before I ever encountered one.”

“Then you were lucky indeed.”

“I was.”

Fenris held the bag out to Solas, who made no move to take it.

“They are yours,” Fenris said, taking an urging half-step forward.

“Keep the lyrium,” Solas told him. “I have others.”

“I do not need them, neither of us are mages.”

Solas smiled kindly. “Then keep them as remembrance. Sing the songs to your children.”

Fenris gave him a sharp look. “Do you know something?”

“No, no. I simply assumed...ah. How presumptuous of me. My apologies. Not everyone desires children.”

 “Perhaps...some day. But not with the world as it is.”

Solas nodded. “I understand.” He held his hand out, and Fenris took it once more. _“Dareth shiral, falon._ Safe journeys, my friend.”

_“Daresh shiral.”_

 

-

 

Lavellan and Solas sat together on his settee, heads close together as they read from the same book. He had taken to transcribing the secrets from Dirthamen’s temple into books, presenting them to her without explanation, and she sought to tease out their contents.

_“El’a somn’atas re..rem...rena?”_ She shook her head in frustration. “I can’t tell if that’s two circles, or three. Or one thick one? It is supposed to be this vague?”

Solas placed his hand upon the paper, the point of one nail along one specific point of the word she struggled with. “Here.” he said, refusing to give her the answer.

She shot him an annoyed glance, but bowed her head to look again. “One circle is ren. Two is rem. Three is renas,” she repeated his lesson to herself. “ren is singular, rem is plural, renas is…” she stuttered, trying to remember.

“A group without bonds. A mob, or people waiting in line, or a crowd at a market. Sheaves of wheat not yet secured. Bees without their queen,” Solas supplied softly.

Ellana made a frustrated noise. “This is _nothing_ like the language that the Dalish speak.” She sighed, leaned back, pinched her nose with two fingers. “I thought we had more of it right. But this is ridiculous.”

“The Dalish have lost much over the centuries; the elves in the alienages, even more. They fumble as children in the dark.”

“Yes, yes. We’re all so _very_ wrong. You do get tiresome when you go on about it,” she snapped at him.

His gaze shuttered, and he pulled the book from her lap, sliding it closed. “You are tired. Perhaps we should continue this another time.”

Ellana warred with herself as she watched him walk away, putting the book on the shelf with exquisite care. She knew she’d hurt him, knew she should apologize. But she was so _tired_ of him always being so caustic about elves. Weren’t they trying to do better? Wasn’t she here, night after night, learning? Weren’t they working together to build a place for the People?

She stood, knowing that he would not wish to speak to her anymore tonight. “Very well. Goodnight.” And she walked out the door.

Solas watched until the door closed quietly behind her. Why was she always so defensive about the Dalish? She had already admitted that they’d lost much. _She_ came to _him_ to ask for help in learning the language. And yet, she snarled when he stated simple facts. Perhaps this was one thing on which they would never agree.

 

-

 

She dreamed of him.

She dreamed of him often, and everytime she thought his name, it reverberated through the fade with the power of the mark - his power, calling to him. He ignored her every time, going about his own business as best he was able, but tonight, in light of their disagreement, he answered the call. Perhaps her dreams would reveal motivations her waking mind kept secret.

He followed the pull of his power until he hovered just beyond the range of her senses. He crouched in the wolf form, peering out at her from beyond a scraggy bush. She wandered through the fade, a representation of her staff clutched in her hands. Mages were taught to be wary as they dreamed; demons would come to them often and offer temptations, requiring that they be driven away. If he were to approach her now, one of two things would happen. If he were a man, she would assume demon. If he was a wolf, she would assume Fen’Harel. The impish part of him wanted to reveal himself as he was. But he held his place, he had been drawn here for a different purpose.

 Though she lacked the ability to truly shape the fade, her imagination still formed ghostly images, like reflections upon the surface of the water. In them, she thought of seeking him out, asking him about the histories of their people. And of him responding with kindness and patience, rather than the sharp frustration and dismissal that she had been met with on occasion. Her dream switched from longing to memory. Was that truly how she saw him? Powerful and wise, but solitary, aloof - even harsh. He cringed; he looked like Elgar’nan.

She approached him in the rotunda, and he slipped into the skin of his double, taking it over.

“Solas?” she called, and he turned to face her.

“Yes?” he poured subtle power into her dream, shaping the fade around them. It took on a firmer form, became real in her mind. No longer a dream, she thought herself awake.

“Do you have a minute?” She was always so courteous, despite her elevated rank; she had no desire to disrupt his work.

“Of course,” he said kindly. “But not here. Come, walk with me.”

He shifted them, stepping them out into a new location, leaving her dream-awake mind with the impression that they had traveled the long distance to Haven without bothering to form the journey in between.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, leading her through the twists of Haven’s streets. “I am certain that I come off as brusque and dismissive at times. That is not my intention. I do not mean to continuously point out the failings of the elves. I can hardly condemn them for the things they do not know. I am simply frustrated with their stubbornness. I approached many clans, visited many alienages. Trying to share what I know, give them back some of the history they claim to crave. And each time I was laughed at, taunted, chased away. Flat-ear was the least of the slurs thrown my way. I let it make me bitter, and I should not have.”

She remained silent as they walked, and eventually he turned to look at her. Trying to gauge her reactions. She paced beside him, brows lowered in thought.

“I appreciate the apology, Solas. And, though it pains me, I find myself unsurprised at the reception you received. It is...difficult...to hear that the culture we try so hard to hold on to is so very wrong. It is like your claim that the Keepers restrict the writing of El’vhen’an to retain a measure of power. It hurts. I do not want to think of Deshana acting so selfishly. Especially not when she spent so much time telling us of our duty in serving the clan. But I also…” she breathed out, ran a hand through her hair in a nervous gesture. “I have no better answer. I don’t believe it, or don’t want to believe it, or…  I just wish there was some other reason…” she struggled with her words.

_“Ir abelas, lethallan._ I had not realized that my words had wounded you so. There is another explanation: the one your Keeper gave you herself. The belief that the language is magic. That teaching anyone but a mage is a fruitless endeavor.”

She quirked a smile, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “So, either they are wrong with their motives behind not teaching the language, or they are wrong about the language itself?”

“That is not-” he stuttered.

“Relax, Solas. I was teasing. I understand. Because the truth is that we are wrong. About a great many things. And pretending that we aren’t won’t fix it. I think, if we both try to remember where the other is coming from, it will not be so difficult for us in the future. We do share a goal, after all.”

 “Yes,” he said, surprised at how strong the rush of relief was. “I believe you are correct.”

 “So!” she asked, as she followed him up the steps to the chantry. “Why Haven?”

 “Why not?” he asked, and held open the door to the basement cells for her to pass through ahead of him. “Haven is familiar, and will always be important to you.”

 She asked no more questions as he lead her down, though he could feel her mind churning. Feeling mischievous, he plucked one of them from her mind, and answered it as if she had spoken aloud. _Why does the chantry have prison cells, I wonder?_

 “Perhaps because, as in all things, the humans have a hidden dark side to the chantry.” They came to the cells, and he paced over to where she had been held captive while she fought for her life against the anchor. “You will recall that the Chantry is born out of the first Inquisition, and that came from the first Blight: war in its most raw form.”

 “And, there was the Exalted March against the elves of Halam’shiral. You are right, of course.” She stepped up beside him, unwilling to stand even a pace behind. She did not ask to be senior, only equal. He admired that about her.

 He paused, then. “This is where they kept you, after you emerged from the Beyond. I sat with you, studying the anchor.” He kept his memories of that time carefully separate from the world he was shaping for her; they were powerful.

 The blast of fear as the conclave exploded, recognition as the energy washed over him, distress as he could not latch onto it. Horror as he realized what must have happened, determination as he ran against the crowds, pushing towards the source. Caution as he approached Cassandra, relief when he saw the anchor and felt its power throb against his pulse. And black, black despair as he discovered that he could not pull it from her hand. “I kept you as safe as I could.”

 “I...had no idea. Thank you, for saving me.” She turned to him, reaching out and laying a hand on his arm in gratitude.

 He shook her words off. He had not saved her because it was right. He had saved her because to let her die was to allow the energy to return to the orb - to grant Corypheus just that much more power. Instead, he had sat as close to her as he dared, with templars watching over them, and held her hand in his, pulling the threads of power from her mark every time they overflowed. Those he absorbed, bolstering his spirit while keeping them from killing her. It had been a purely selfish move. “There is no need to thank me. I did only what was prudent at the time.”

After three days, they had determined that he was not aiding her recovery (a truth he would never admit to), and asked him to look to the closing of the rifts. He acquiesced acknowledging that, while he was slowly becoming more powerful as his vitality returned to him through her, the world was also destroying itself at a much faster rate. At the time, he had thought that perhaps he had absorbed enough raw strength to close the rifts. He was wrong.

 “All the same, you needn’t have done anything at all. And I am grateful.”

 He inclined his head, and lead her back up the stairs to stand outside the Chantry once more. He turned to face the rift that still existed in this memory. “You closed the breach, but it is not sealed,” he told her.

 “What?” she asked, turning to face the breach swirling in the sky in bewilderment.

 He smoothed her confusion down, redirecting her attention to his next words. He simply wanted her to know, but did not yet want her aware of the fact that this was a dream. “You are not what I expected, Inquisitor.”

 “What _were_ you expecting? A savage from the wilds with no hygiene and bad teeth?” she snipped, then became stricken with apology.

 He winced, but spoke smoothly, before she could speak. “No. I was expecting another victim. A martyr who would die as the Herald to the end of the world. Instead, there was you. A warrior who closed rifts and brokered peace between mages and templars. A mage who cared for the refugees and refused to be labeled as a Herald of anything.”

 Stunned silence.

 “I was out in the field, studying the rifts, trying to divine their nature. I had hoped that I would be able to affect them, perhaps even close them. But - it was not meant to be.” He shrugged, his only concession to the rolling frustration he felt at his failure. “I was about to give up and retreat, when you arrived.”

 Her mind turned to that time, when he had grabbed her hand and forced her to close that first, fatal rift. And, despite all his skill, the fade briefly warped around them into a representation of that memory, as she unconsciously pulled on his power in the palm of her hand. Solas wrestled the image from her fast enough that she did not realize what she had done. He returned them to Haven, his expression placid, even as his respect for her jumped up a notch. She’d only had his power for a few months, but she was already beginning to control it.

 “You were going to leave? That doesn’t sound like you. From what I remember, _you_ approached _Cassandra,_ did you not?” She turned to face him, brows drawn down across her eyes.

 He glanced once more at the breach, then turned his back on it, folding his arms behind his back. “I had come to help, to see if I could close the rifts and the breach. But for all my knowledge, I could do nothing. The fade around them is different, I cannot grasp or mould it. Perhaps because of whatever Corypheus did, I do not know. I had decided to go elsewhere for knowledge: Nevarra, or perhaps Tevinter. But it turned out that I was not needed at all.”

 She scoffed at that, folding her arms across her chest. “Don’t even pretend to be modest. I know you at least that well, _Pride.”_

 She spoke in reference to his name. Solas was Pride in El’vhen’an. When he had woken, it was all he had left to himself.

 He smirked. She was right, of course. And he enjoyed the times when she could see beyond his mask. “Even so. I felt the world change when I grasped your arm.”

 A fire lit up in her eyes, and she dropped her arms to take one prowling step towards him. Her whole manner was suddenly feminine and seductive. “ ‘Felt the world change’ ?”

 He quirked one corner of his mouth up in a nervous smile. That was not what he meant. “It is a figure of speech,” he said, trying to put her off. She was intriguing; beautiful behind her vallaslin - distractingly so - and the most grace filled person he’d met since he’d awoken. Few in Elvhenan possessed her wisdom, justice, and compassion. In another world, he would have pursued her wholeheartedly. But in _this_ world, he dared not. They shared ultimate goals, but she still did not know who he was. And he had no plans to tell her.

 She did not appear to care. “Oh, I’m well aware of that. I’m more concerned with ‘felt’”.

 She crept closer, and he stepped away. But a hand on his arm pulled, and he turned back, drawn to her in spite of (or perhaps, because of) the fact that he should not. She slid her hand around until it was more of an embrace, her other coming up to cup his cheek. She paused for the briefest of moments, staring up into his eyes. When she pulled him down, he did not resist. A kiss...he would grant her a kiss.

 It was chaste; soft and slow. She had sensed his hesitation, and was asking with every brush of her lips. He allowed it for a brief moment, before pulling softly away. He _longed_...but would not. Because he could never tell her the truth of himself. And this was one area of his life in which he _would not_ lie.

 She sighed and tipped her head down, resting her head against his chest. He laid his hands on her hips and bowed his head over her; breathing in her essence.

 “I’m sorry,” she said to his shirt, voice sharp with unshed tears. “I knew...knew you weren’t interested. But you were so _kind_ to me when I was lost amongst the humans, and I thought -” she choked on her words. “I thought wrong.”

 His heart clenched in his chest. She was not wrong. But he had misled her, and he knew that, now, she felt more alone than ever before. “No, _lethallan,”_ he told her, finally wrapping her in his arms, laying his cheek against her hair. “You are not wrong. I _do_ want. But we cannot.”

 “You-” she arched just enough in his arms to look him in the eyes. “You do? Then _why?_ Why not?”

 His eyes darkened and he looked away, bringing one hand up to press her head to his chest again. He stared out across Haven, studying the trees. “Because there are things I cannot tell you. Lies I have wrapped myself in. To keep everyone safe. I am not a nice man. But I will not begin something with you if I cannot give you my all.”

 She snorted, and squeezed where she had her arms around his waist hard enough to make him grunt. “What could _possibly_ be that bad? We have _Corypheus.”_

 Solas sighed. She didn’t understand; couldn’t, because he would not tell her. “My name is not Solas.” He would give her that much.

 She stiffened against him for the briefest of moments. But before he could begin to pull away, she relaxed again, pulling him closer and running her hands soothingly up and down his back. “My name is not Lavellan.” He felt her grin. “It’s Ellana. Lavellan is my clan name.”

 “I cannot return the favor, _lethallan,”_ Solas mourned.

 “You don’t have to. I’m not asking you to. Just...give me a chance? You don’t have to trust me with all your secrets. I don’t want to know them all, anyway. I just…” she trailed off, frustrated with her inability to put her thoughts into words.

 He couldn’t tell her that, in the fade, he could feel them pressing along the edges of his mind. Admiration. Respect. Longing. Kinship. A touch of fear. Joy. Peace.

 She thought him powerful. She thought him admirable. She thought him knowledgeable of things worth knowing, and fascinating because she’d never thought to look the places he explored. She thought him humorous, when he deigned to share his thoughts, and mysterious enough to keep her guessing. She knew about his playful side - the one he kept hidden from the people in the Inquisition. That he, not Sera, had been the one to replace Josephine’s personal ink stash with the color-changing ink.How she knew, he did not know.

 He stared down at the top of her head in wonder. She did not know his name, she did not know his past, but somehow...she knew _him._

 She felt him shift, and moved accordingly, tilting her head up to look at him. Her eyes were direct, staring into his. There was the slightest crease between her brows as she focused on him to the exclusion of everything else. Indomitable focus. Knowing eyes. There was nothing he could do, but kiss her.

 One hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, while the other wrapped around her to hold her tightly to him. He dipped his head, lips descending upon hers. Where she had asked, he insisted. Where she was timid, he was forceful. She responded with equal enthusiasm, pushing up in his arms to wrap her arms around his shoulders. He lifted, she pulled, and her toes barely touched the ground.

 Her tongue flicked out, tasting him; he opened his mouth and allowed her entrance, sliding his tongue along hers in a manner he would use elsewhere. She whimpered, and tightened her grip, one hand creeping up to grasp the back of his neck, blunt nails digging in.

 Someone else was in the fade, trying to push their way into this dream.  He lifted his head with a growl, thankful for the interruption. Despite mutual desire, this was _still_ not a good idea. And certainly not while she was unaware of their location. “This is not right. Especially not here.”

 She pulled away, slightly dazed. Her cheeks flushed prettily. “What do you mean, ‘here’?”

 Solas let her go and stepped away completely, masculine pride flaring within him. _He_ had done this to her. But the presence was pushing insistently, and while there was no risk of them getting in, whoever it was must be dealt with. “Where do you think you are?” he asked with a smirk.

 She looked around with a frown that quickly cleared to a look of wonder. “We’re in the fade!” Bright eyes turned to his. “How? It’s never looked like this before.”

 “I think that is best discussed later,” he leaned towards her, pushing gently with his will, “when you _wake up.”_

 She vanished with a gasp, and Solas dropped the dream, shifting his appearance as he did so to something more intimidating than bald with tatty clothes. He grew his hair back with a thought, inky black and down to his waist, bound up in intricate braids. His clothing shifted to his favorite ensemble from the Age of Arlathan: soft blue trousers, sleeveless leather vest tooled with white wolf fur in intricate designs that swirled around the back to form the image of the Great Wolf howling across his shoulders. Bare feet.

 All this achieved before the dream truly faded, Fen’Harel turned to face the interloper. “Who are you that disturbed my remembrances?”

 The youth gasped and stumbled back, his eyes flicking up and down as he stared at the being before him. “Wh-who are you?” he asked haltingly. This was not what he’d expected to find when he breached the bubble. A strong dreamer, perhaps, or another person crying out for help in their sleep. But not this...elf, if he was truly an elf, who stood in the fade more real than anything he’d yet seen in his wanderings.

 The fade-creature scowled in annoyance. “I am not here to indulge you or your questions.”

 The boy swallowed. “My name is Feynriel.”

 Surprised recognition flitted across the man’s face. “I have heard of you. Feynriel, the budding Dream Walker.”

 Feynriel was suddenly very afraid. This thing, whatever it was, was immensely powerful; far more skilled than he in the art of manipulating the fade. He knew, without being told, that he had not pierced this being's dream, it had allowed him inside. His eyes widened in alarm as it prowled towards him in movements too fluid to be believed. He tried to turn, to keep it in sight as it circled around him, but found himself pinned in place by an immovable power and he whimpered in fear. Nothing had overpowered him in the fade since he had accepted his nature as a somniari. Nothing frightened him; demons couldn’t touch him, and spirits stayed away. But _this_ creature immobilized him without effort.

 “If tales are to be believed, you have known your nature for years. Why do you only seek me out now?” it asked him. As if he’d known what he was doing when he’d poked the bear.

 It stepped back into view, far closer to Feynriel than he was comfortable with. But he hadn’t the luxury of movement. He knew a dominance display when he saw one, though, and dropped his gaze to the things feet. “I apologize for the intrusion. I had not intended to disturb you. I am unlearned and unskilled. All I can ask is for mercy, for I knew not what I was doing.”

 Aggression turned to surprise, but Feynriel didn’t dare move his gaze from the ground. He had a horrible suspicion that he knew what this creature was. It was too real to be a spirit, too powerful to be simply another Dreamer. His mother had told him tales of the Dread Wolf. How he was the Lord of Nightmares, Roamer of the Beyond. If he was right about this being Fen’Harel, he was just as likely to be ignored as he was to be eaten.

Fen’Harel studied the youth abasing himself before him. It had been years since he’d slipped on the mantle of a god, but it had been insultingly easy to reduce the boy to helpless supplicant. He’d not threatened the boy, not harmed him. At most, he’d pinned his feet to the floor - painlessly. Why was he - but he knew, of course. The boy thought him an immensely powerful spirit. Perhaps one of aggression. The boy was attempting to placate him!

 The Dread Wolf chuckled, and walked off a few paces. “I am no spirit, _da’len._ And I will not harm you.”

 Feynriel’s eyes flickered up, but never made it past Fen’Harel’s knees. “I am grateful for my life, my lord,” he said, still subdued.

 Fen’Harel growled, “stop it, boy! Have you no pride? Raise your eyes.”

 A pause, then Feynriel did so. Cautiously. “I mean no offence. The tales say nothing of how you wish to be treated.”

 Shock thundered through Fen’Harel. The boy knew who he was. Or guessed with some degree of certainty. Suddenly, the fear made much more sense, and the Dread Wolf was infinitely weary. He’d wondered how the elves would treat him. This half-elven youth was giving him a good clue. And the reality of it was heartbreaking. How far they had fallen.

 A twist of thought, and the fade shifted around them. Unwilling to shock the boy too much, Fen’Harel replicated a place he’d been recently: the crossroads of Redcliff. He kept the spirits and demons at bay, and settled upon one of the plain wooden benches dotting the landscape. He gestured at another.

 Feynriel hesitated, as if unsure his feet would follow his commands, before moving to sit as directed.

 “Your tales are wrong; it does not matter what they say. I require no obescence; I do not hunt for sport or revenge. Neither the Dalish, nor the city elves have anything to fear from me.” Fen’Harel leaned back in the chair, staring up at the crafted blue sky.

 “You…” Feynriel trailed off. Out of the corner of his eye, Fen’Harel saw him bite his lip to keep from speaking.

 “Voice your thoughts, Feynriel.” Fen’Harel kept his eyes on the sky, hoping that, without his gaze on him, the boy’s courage would return.

 “Have you...been here all along?” the boy asked tentatively.

 Fen’Harel considered the question carefully. Should he get his orb back, he had plans he wanted to fulfil. Plans that involved revealing himself to the elves, guiding them to the parts of their history that should be revived, and sharing how things had gone so wrong - so that it might never happen again. He wanted to lift them out of the alienages and wilderness they had fallen to. He wanted to elevate them from elves, to ehlven. But first, he needed their trust. Perhaps this could be the first step.

 “No,” he said softly, and closed his eyes. “I slept. Dreamless, timeless, I abandoned the world I created and withdrew into myself. I was tired - but that is no excuse.”

 “And the...others?” Feynriel’s voice was tiny, no larger than a mouse. Fen’Harel wondered at the courage it had taken to ask that question.

 He sighed and tilted his head down, still not looking at the boy. “Gone. Never to return.” He cut his eyes at Feynriel observing the mullish, disbelieving face the boy wore, before he quickly smoothed it away. “But you do not believe me,” Fen’Harel observed without surprise. “It is to be expected. Dirthamen kept his greatest secret and brought it to his grave. I should not have left him for last. Foolish sentimentalities.”

 “Why did you do it?” the boy burst out, rushing to his feet, gesturing wildly. Fen’Harel watched with approving eyes. He knew that, if he’d pushed just enough, the boy would forget his fear, for his anger. “You took them away, all of them! You left us without our gods, stole our pride. Look at what has happened to us! What did you gain from banishing them _all?”_ Anguish rippled through Feynriel’s voice, cracking on the last word.

 Fen’Harel spoke mildly, not insulted by the youth’s outburst. He expected to hear far worse in the years to come. “I gained peace. For me; for you.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees, content to let Feynriel tower over him. “We were not gods. We never were. Dirthamen and I were born to merchants. Falon’Din to tavern keepers. Mythal was a noble, and never managed to shed some of her more delicate sensibilities. Elgar’nan was a soldier, vengeance fit him well.” He looked up at Feynriel, observing the boys thunderstruck expression. “Not gods,” he repeated kindly. “Elvhen. Perhaps not as easy to kill as others, because of our power, but certainly not divine. We were leaders, rulers. Passing down judgements on the People because it was what _they_ desired.”

 Feynriel crumpled to the ground, eyes full of anguish. “Why do I believe you?”

 Fen’Harel shrugged. “Because this is the Beyond. Because, should I lie to you, you would feel it. You have at least that much skill. Lies here are brilliant tapestries, woven through with slender black threads. Most would not see them, if they were to enter this place.” Fen’Harel waved his hand around at the crossroads. “But you can see them. And they will never hide from you again.”

 Feynriel nodded reluctantly. “I always know when I’m in the fade. I can see the strands of will that form each shape; and I can pluck them away, denying the most sophisticated image its form. But…” Here, Feynriel reached out to the image of the crossroads that surrounded them. He cast his power over it, trying to grasp the edges, to pull it apart at the seams.

 Fen’Harel sat placidly, watching with mild eyes. There were no seams for the youth to find, his power clumsy and uncoordinated.

 Feynriel shook his head. “I can still _see_ the lie. But I cannot unravel it.”

 Fen’Harel smiled mysteriously.

 Feynriel was suddenly nervous, as if realizing what he’d just done. But Fen’Harel waved him off, before he could truly begin to panic. “Experience,” he explained.

 They sat in silence for a time. Feynriel, trying to absorb the things he’d been told. To mesh the stories he’d been raised on by his Dalish mother - the Trickster Dread Wolf. Liar Dread Wolf. Merciless and terrifying Fen’Harel - with the man who sat on the bench before him, blinking sleepily. It could all be a lie, of course. This was the God of Deceit before him. But...Feynriel glanced around at the space again. There was no doubt this was the fade. And he’d always known when a demon was lying to him. He could feel it in the air.

 But, this was no demon or spirit. This was a god. But also, not a god, if he was to be believed. Not god but...elvhen. An ancient and powerful being who had been...a ruler? A king? Not divine, just powerful? Feynriel eyed the Dread Wolf out of the corner of his eyes, careful not to look at the man closely. That was the hardest lie (truth?) to swallow about this bizarre encounter.

 “I do not expect that I have your trust,” Fen’Harel spoke abruptly, a frightening mimicry of what Feynriel had just been thinking. “But it does not matter. I have time to earn it. Some time, at least.”

 The world around them shuddered, like a bubble wobbling just before it burst.

 Fen’Harel chuckled. “But not so much time now, it seems. I am being awoken.”

 Feynriel took on a look of horrible fascination, as if wondering who dared disturb the great Dread Wolf’s rest.

 Fen’Harel laughed, and dissolved the crossroads around them, throwing himself back into his body as he did so. A Dream Walker, one who would know the truth of his words when he spoke them. Luck was certainly on his side this day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I always thought the meeting between the two Dream Walkers would be very interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas speaks to Ellana, Fen'Harel approaches Feynriel, Ellana is terrified.

Levallin visited him the next day, though not first thing, Solas was amused to note. But when she did come…

“Did you sleep well?” he asked innocently.

“That was...amazing. I’ve never done anything like that before. I didn’t know you could,” she marveled. Ellana moved close, asking questions with eyes and body that she would not voice with her tongue. He had pushed her away at the end, after all.

“Which?” he asked, voice light.

“Either!” she laughed.

He sobered, and she with him. “That was…” he shook his head. _“Lethallan_ , I am sorry if I was too forward. Things have always been easier for me in the fade.”

She smiled softly and put her hand on his arm. “I liked it,” she assured him.

He chuckled awkwardly and cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Things...changed - last night. I would ask that you give me time to consider.”

“If I’m pressuring you…” she trailed off, looking at him with a worried frown. “Just say the word and I’ll leave you alone. No trouble.”

“No, _lethallan,”_ Solas took one step forward and curled an arm around her waist. “Do anything but that. I am not denying you, simply asking for time. If I must…” he choked on his words, his eyes cutting away from her, even as he held her tight.

Ellana’s hands came up to rest gently on his chest. “Tell me a story about your time in the fade?” she asked in gentle distraction.

He was grateful. “What sort of story would you like to hear?”

She laughed, “you always say that! Why don’t you pick? I don’t know enough to know my options.”

He leaned in, nuzzled her cheek with his nose. “As you wish.” He released her, and she took a seat on his sette, settling in. His thoughts flashed to the promise he’d made: to tell her of Arlathan. He smiled, this he could do.

“When the elves speak of Arlathan, they mention houses in trees. But that brings up images of hewn wood walls and crude rope walkways. Arlathan was a jewel. The trees were _adahl,_ chosen for their grace and beauty. They were groomed from saplings, softly twisted, the grooves forming gentle sloped paths as the tree grew. Branches were bent outward, inward, down - rooms formed where they met the trunk. They glowed from within, tiny gems imbedded in the bark. A symbiote was found: a vine that was flexible when small, but stronger than ironbark when grown. It formed arched bridges from one tree to the next, larger than the roads in Val Royeaux. It grew lighter in color as it aged, until upon its death, it bleached white as bone. The wind would sing hymns as it rushed through the branches, and magic was as easy and free as breath.”

Ellana’s eyes shone as she listened, striving to imagine the things he painted with his words. “It sounds...so beautiful,” she whispered in awe.

“Time was different there, slower,” he told her, his voice fading with soft remembrances. “And there was so much more of it than there is now. Spells could take centuries to cast, their songs blending harmoniously with ones already in place to form a gentle chorus. Staves were not needed then, and a thing such as a templar was never considered. Spirits crossed the veil often, touching the world with delicate hands, before sliding back. Demons were few, for love had yet to twist to lust, and wisdom was content to know.”

“What happened?” Ellana asked in a hushed whisper, caught up in his spell.

Solas stopped his pacing and turned to look at her, debating on giving her the truth. He had said he would not lie to her, if they were to be involved. But he had _so many_ secrets. And any one of them was enough to break her.

“Is the truth so bad?” she asked, correctly guessing at his hesitation.

Solas moved towards her, standing close enough to touch, but not daring to cross that last line. He looked down at her with eyes dark with some emotion she could not name.

“Arlathan did not fall through any outside war. Elvhen killed elvhen - brought about their own destruction.” It was the simple, kind truth that hid the deeper nightmare.

Ellana bowed her head in sorrow, before reaching out and taking his hand in comfort. Solas settled on the settee beside her, grateful for the compassion.

“You saw these in the fade? Experience them as the people who lived them did?” She squeezed his hand, laid her head on his shoulder. “I can’t imagine what that must be like. Wonderful, but so sad.”

Solas swallowed and nodded, trusting that she would feel the motion as his shoulders shifted. He’d brought the past that was so recent to him to life for her - and for him - and he was struck again with the deep sorrow he’d felt before he’d abandoned the world for a deep slumber.

“Thank you,” Ellana whispered, her breath ghosting through the thin fabric of his tunic. “I wish I could see them as you do. But your words paint a picture all their own.”

Footsteps down the stairs disturbed them, and Ellana pulled away reluctantly, standing into a full body stretch. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“Would you like to?”

 

-

 

He gave the boy a week, then sought him out in the fade. Having gotten a feel for Feynriel’s magic once, he could track him anywhere, now. The youth had no such skill, and did not notice his approach until Solas was quite close. As before, he took care with his appearance, returning to the boy as he had left him.

Feynriel turned nervously at his approach, his fears about the Dread Wolf must have been stoked. “My lord,” he said, with a subservient bow of his head.

Fen’Harel scoffed. “None of that. I rule nothing and no-one now. Certainly not you. You may address me by name, should you feel inclined to do so. Otherwise, come up with something else. It matters not.“

Feynriel’s eyes went round. “I’m not sure I could do that, my- er. I don’t think I can. The stories are too fresh in my mind.”

Fen’Harel sighed, sitting down on a stool he conjured from nowhere. In ages past, he would have brought out the wolf and scampered about, barking and playing until his companion was more at ease. But he had a feeling that seeing him as the Dread Wolf would only cause the boy’s fear to spike. So he settled for doing nothing at all, simply watching the youth with bored eyes. He demanded nothing from Feynriel. Not his attention, and not his worship.

For a time, Feynriel stood still under Fen’Harel’s gaze, waiting for some sort of sign that the god was displeased. But after five minutes, in which the Dread Wolf’s eyes began to glaze over out of boredom, and Feynriel was heartily sick of doing nothing as well, the young somniari decided to continue with his lessons, attempting to follow his master’s instructions.

He turned away from Fen’Harel, paused, and turned back - checking to see if such action was allowed. But the Dread Wolf was creating snow drifts with lazy twirls of one finger, sending small snowstorms dancing across the barren green wastes of the fade. Assured of the gods disinterest, for all that he remained manifest by Feynriel’s side, the young Dream Walker focused on the fade, his face settling in a frown of concentration. His master had set him the task of reaching through the fade and altering something in the real world with his power. Something as simple as marking something with his essence would be enough to satisfy his master as a first step. But he was unable to do even that much. He could affect the fade, unravel the things written, but he couldn’t reach _through_ it. He entered the fade the same as any mage, by dreaming, and could only affect the physical world through touch. The tales of somniari spoke of skills far greater than that.

Feynriel focused, and reached, fumbling with the threads of the fade, trying to find his way through them to the world beyond. He pressed up against the veil, and felt himself begin to wake. He pulled back with a shake of his head, then tried again. Over and over, he attempted to reach through the veil without waking from his slumber; each time he was forced to retreat, task uncomplete. A growl of frustration escaped him. He’d been attempting this for several months, with nothing to show for it.

“You cannot do what you seek,” Fen’Harel said from behind him, mildly.

Feynriel gasped and spun around, having forgotten about the god behind him. But Fen’Harel was just as he had been, seated upon a stool and playing with snowdrifts. He gave no indication that he had been watching.

“I know that,” Feynriel snapped with more heat than what should be addressed to the one who had banished all the gods from the world. “I’ve been trying for months. But all I manage to do is wake myself up.”

“That is because you are not here.”

Feynriel blinked, nonplussed. “Of course I’m here.”

Fen’Harel chuckled, and stepped down from his stool. Both chair and snow vanished as he ceased to pay attention to them. “You misunderstand. You must step _into_ the fade, to alter the world beyond it. Otherwise, pressing upon the veil will only return you to your body.”

Feynriel’s jaw dropped, as he tried to absorb what he’d been told. “Nobody can enter the fade physically. The last to attempt that were the magisters, thirteen hundred years ago, and they brought about the blights when they did.”

Fen’Harel cocked his head to the side. “You are Andrastian?”

Feynriel looked stunned. “Well, er. I mean-”

Fen’Harel held up a hand, to forestall the boy’s fumbling. “It does not matter to me if you are. I already told you that I am no god.” He paused, as if he was going to say more, then changed his mind. “Walking physically in the Beyond is a skill that only Dreamers - somniari - possess. This is because we are the only ones who can slip through the veil. I myself have done it countless times; in the Age of Arlathan, as well as in the present age. Nor am I the only one. In ancient times, when Dreamers were so much more prevalent, it was a not uncommon skill. I imagine it would be difficult for you - it takes years of practice - but it is not impossible.” Seeing how uncomfortable the idea made the youth, Fen’Harel continued, “I will not force you to walk the Beyond, Feynriel. Simply know that it is possible, and causes no ill-effects.”

Feynriel whetted his lips. “And...the blights?”

Fen’Harel’s face darkened, and Feynriel felt a shiver of fear. “The magesters were _not_ somniari. And I will say no more on the matter.”

“I...understand. I think.”

Fen’Harel’s face cleared into a gentle smile. “Good. Then you are doing better than I.” He paused. “I will leave you be. _Dareth shiral,_ Feynriel.” Fen’Harel bowed slightly, and walked away.

 _“D-dareth shiral,”_ Feynriel responded belatedly in surprise.

_Safe journeys._

 

-

 

In the week before he approached Feynriel, Solas contemplated a new course of action. His original plan, upon waking, had been to unlock the orb in which he’d sealed his powers and then step out into the grand world the elvhen would have created in his absence. Instead, he found himself greatly diminished after his long slumber, and lacked the power to unlock the orb. And the world was not as it should have been. All the elvhen had died, leaving only shemlin in their wake; small, huddled groups in alienages, and wanderers outside the cities with more pride than sense. A foolish choice left his orb in the hands of Corypheus, and he was more powerless now than the day he’d been born. What he had envisioned as a return to glory turned to ash in his mouth as he gathered remnants of his power to him, waiting to have enough to challenge Corypheus.

Then the world had exploded with his power, and he’d found a portion of his lost essence in the palm of a dying woman, while another portion ripped the veil in two. He had been forced to reevaluate his plans again, for he had never expected that Corypheus would be able to unlock so much of his power, much less do such a terrible thing with it. He joined the Inquisition, for their fight was his, and he plotted ways to use them to retrieve his orb. He was set to deny Ellana, she had much to do, and deserved better than a man with such secrets. But then Feynriel had intervened, and a new future shimmered before him.

What if the Dream Walker came to trust him? What if there was one, much respected for possessing a skill thought lost to the ages, who would speak on his behalf? Who could sway the People, just enough, to allow him the chance to tell his story? And what if Ellana could be swayed as well? Could he convince her that there was more to the Dread Wolf than betrayal? What would it mean for the leader of the most powerful organization to speak up in his defense? How would the Dalish tribes respond to the voice of their most distinguished, singing his praises? Walking at his side, sharing his life? What might they do then, how might their grand plan change, with her power and his knowledge?

It was an alluring idea, one far too good to pass up. And so, Solas plotted.

If he were to gain Ellana’s trust, sway her to his side, he would need to convince her that the Dread Wolf was not something to be feared. Show her that he did not make war indiscriminately, plant doubt as to the truthfulness of the tales; all the while binding her to him tight enough that she would not simply walk away when he revealed his duplicity. It would require a delicate touch. Fortunately, this was something he excelled in.

He decided to start with her dreams.

She dreamt often of the times she was out in the field, thinking longingly of the long hikes through forests and over streams. Most recently, they had been in the Exalted Plains, and he took advantage of the fact that there were so many wolf statues in the area. In her dream, it was just the four of them: Ellana, Solas, Sera, and Blackwall. The dead kept rising in the ramparts, and they had spent an entire day hacking their way towards their spawn point, before they were finally able to burn the pits they emerged from. They had slept like the dead themselves that night.

In the dream, they were just leaving the eastern ramparts, and were headed for the southern, about to begin their quest anew, and Solas slipped into her mind without a ripple. He settled himself inside one of the wolf statues farther along the road, the one before the caves she had ordered cleared by the Inquisition soldiers. He saw her glance longingly at the cave, an Inquisition camp was set not far beyond its entrance, and would provide a measure of safety not found on the roads. He took advantage of that glance to reveal himself.

Shaking the dream-stone from his fur, he stood to his full height, looking up at them from his pedestal. Ellana reacted predictably, cursing and staggering backwards away from him. Solas’s dream self cast a hasty barrier over the group, and he felt a blast of amusement at the idea that he was protecting her from himself.

“What the hell is that?” Blackwall roared, sword and shield at the ready.

“D-Dread Wolf!” Ellana cried, backpedaling. “Don’t attack him!”

Solas settled onto his haunches, tail wrapped around his toes, and simply looked at her.

“Well, what’s he doing then?” Sera demanded. “Gonna stare us to death?”

He flicked his ear at her, but kept his eyes on Ellana. She was the only real thing in this dream, and the only thing worthy of his attention.

“Solas?” Ellana called.

He had originally planned on leaving her dreams alone, letting her direct them as she would. But Solas found himself unwilling to allow his shadow to speak against him. He reached out with a delicate touch, and took control of his double.

“He does not appear hostile, lethallan. Perhaps if we leave him in peace…?”

Ellana barked a laugh, eyes never straying from the god sitting on his pedestal before her. “Peace is not in his nature, Solas. Don’t you know know that?”

Solas did not respond, and Ellana stared at the Dread Wolf for a long moment more before carefully affixing her staff to her back. She would not be able to harm him with it anyway, and he might take exception to her battle stance. She wasn’t sure what to do. She was dreaming in the fade, she knew, but was usually content to allow the dreams to go as they willed, only taking control when they vered down darker paths. As soon as the statue had exploded into life, she had tried to banish the Dread Wolf the same way she had banished him when she was a child. A push with her mind, and the thought of him was out of her head, and out of her dream, leaving her to sleep peacefully. But _this_ Wolf would not be banished, meaning that her mind had some other reason to bring the image of the Betrayer before her.

But this image of him was different than the one her imagination usually supplied. He was far larger, for one, standing as tall as her hart, and he lacked the multiple sets of red eyes that always stared at her as if she was prey. Instead of being coal black, with the ground cracking and freezing with his every step, he was whiter than the snow that fell gently from his coat, ice blue eyes gazing at her with infinite patience. Her frightened mind supplied the thought that, perhaps, this was the real Dread Wolf, appeared in her dreams.

 _“Ma serranas,_ Fen’Harel,” she called, dissolving her companions and putting her hands together in a formal apology. “I meant no disrespect when I encountered your statues in the Plains.”

The wolf only looked at her, no emotion evident in its bearing.

“Do you wish me to return there? I can meet with the Dalish clan, we can honor your statues properly,” she tried again, wondering what the Dread Wolf wanted. The tales of him were a thousand years old, and though he supposedly still walked the world, he had not made himself known in all that time. Was this truly him now? Or a trick of her mind? Perhaps even a demon, come to feed off her fear.

The Dread Wolf huffed, lay down on his pedestal jaw to paws, and closed his eyes.

He could not have stunned Ellana more if he’d tried. Not a demon of fear, for certain. He was the exact opposite of threatening. If it were not for his size and the snow of his coat, she would have thought him tame. Ellana dissolved the dream, sure that he was a construct of her mind and would thus fade away when the dream did. But even as the road and sky changed to murky green, the wolf remained, blindingly white, and laying on the ground of the fade, eyes closed as if in sleep.

A strangled cry escaped her, and the wolf’s head came up alertly, searching for trouble. When he found none, he turned to look at her expectantly, and Ellana ran a shaking hand through her hair. This was Fen’Harel in truth, then. The Dread Wolf had caught her scent.

Fen’Harel sat up, whuffed politely, and walked away, fading from view between one step and the next.

Ellana woke up screaming.

 

-

 

“Solas!”

The door to the rotunda banged open, startling Solas from his sleep. He was up in battle stance quicker than thought, a barrier shimmering around him, staff in hand, and a snarl of challenge in his throat.

Ellana didn’t notice.

She charged at him, and Solas quickly dropped his barrier just before she latched on to his tunic, eyes rolling wildly in her head. “Have you ever seen him? The Dread Wolf! Have you ever seen him in the fade?” she cried, panic causing her whole body to shake.

Solas dropped his staff and gathered her gently in his arms, making no attempt to dislodge her. “Hush, _lethallan,_ hush. You are safe here.”

“The Dread Wolf!” she cried, refusing to be soothed. “Fen’Harel! Have you ever encountered him in your wanderings?”

“No, _lethallan,_ I have never encountered Fen’Harel in the fade.” A statement so exactly not a lie it cut his tongue to speak it.

She shuddered and dropped her head to his chest, fingers twisted so tightly in his tunic he was sure she would rip it apart. Slight tremors wracked her frame, and guilt twisted painfully in his gut as he gathered her carefully in his arms. He moved them to the nearby settee, recasting his barrier as a dome, granting her a measure of privacy as tears began to stream down her cheeks.

“He came to me,” she said into his chest, burrowing deeper into his embrace. “Fen’Harel came to me in my dream. I’m almost certain it was him.”

“What happened?” Solas asked softly, rubbing his hands up and down her back in an effort to warm her sweat-soaked skin.

“I was dreaming of the Exalted Plains. We were headed south, going for the next rampart, when he suddenly exploded out of one of his statues. I was so scared at first, but I thought he was part of the dream.”

“Do you dream of him often?” Solas couldn’t keep himself from asking.

She shook her head wildly, smearing his shirt with her tears as she went. “Not since I was a child. Every Dalish dreams of him at some point, he is the true terror of the night, a monster that really exists.” She hunched into him, and Solas bowed his head over her, his cheek pressing into her hair.

Was this how Feynriel reacted when he awoke? Overwhelming fear that a monster was hunting him through his dreams? Solas crooned nonsense words at her, soft lullabys in ancient El’vhen’an, promises he could not keep; trying to fight the fear he had planted in her.

Eventually, she calmed enough to speak again. “How can you tell if something is a spirit in the fade?”

Solas cocked his head to the side, “everything you encounter in the fade is a spirit, lethallan.”

“You weren’t.” she objected.

“Ah, you mean our time in Haven. It is true that our encounter was a meeting of minds, but that is not something you could accomplish on your own.”

“CouldFen’Harel have done it? What a stupid question, he’s a God. Of course he can. _Fendhis._ Are there are no other options? What about a spirit of fear, trying to terrify me?” She struggled with the dual impulses to run screaming into the night, and to burrow into Solas’ arms so deep she could never get out.

“Tell me what you saw, da’len. And I will tell you what I know.”

Gratitude flared in her eyes, burying him in guilt, and she began to speak. “He looked different than he did when I was a child. White, instead of black, just one set of eyes, but _huge._ Far larger than I ever thought. He came out of the statue and just... _sat there._ Like he was waiting for me to do something. I apologized for ignoring his statues in the Exalted Plains - I _knew_ we should have made an offering at at least one of them, but we always were running to and fro - and offered to go back to honor him properly. With the clan from the plains, even. But he just...just _ignored_ me and lay down! He even closed his eyes.” She shook her head, baffled. “I thought then that he might just be part of my subconscious, taunting me about not honoring him properly the first time. So I dissolved the dream, and went back to the fade. But, Solas!” her fear spiked, and her hands twisted so tightly he could hear the threads begin to break, “when I went back to the fade _he was still there!_ Same position, same image.” Her breathing grew dangerously short, and he worried she would pass out. _“Tell me_ that it could have been a spirit,” she begged.

Guilt and sorrow strangled him for a moment, horror that he had done this thing to her. And disgust with himself because he had every intention of doing it again. And again. Until she lost her fear. “I…” Solas frowned, pulling away from her gaze to stare at the fresco he had created for her. He would need to choose his words carefully here. “There are many things in the fade. Some powerful, yet benign. Some weak, but greedy for power. Spirits gossip just as people do. And while no spirit has told me that they have met Fen’Harel,” another oh-so-careful truth, “there are... _whispers_...of a power stirring. One that has not been felt in centuries.” He heard a soft sound, and looked down at her, his expression carefully controlled to show nothing but concern. “I do not say this to alarm you, but to give you the truth, such as it is. It is possible that the power whispered about is Corypheus. Or you. Both of you possess powers that allow access to the fade that neither of you would would have held alone.”

Such lies he told her, wrapped in pretty truths. It certainly was _possible_ that the power the spirits whispered of was one or both of them. But they did not. They whispered of _him,_ Fen’Harel, returned to them again. He’d made many friends among the fade in the thousand years he’d lived before, and his return was rejoiced, for the most part. Even if a great many of them were put off by the breach that had ripped their world apart.

“Possible, but...you don’t believe it, do you?” She whispered, still frightened, but no longer shaking. Not even the Dread Wolf could keep her down for long.

She was so beautiful.

“I-no. I believe you saw Fen’Harel in truth. Perhaps the breach has drawn him out of hiding. Perhaps he is curious of your mark. Whatever his motivations, he at least does not seem hostile.”

Ellana stared at him for a moment, drew in a deep breath, held it, then released it in one long exhalation. She pulled free of his arms and scrubbed the tears from her face. “You’re right. He did not attack me. Didn’t stalk or growl. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to make himself as unthreatening as possible.” She sighed. “I allowed my fear to get the better of me.”

Now she sounded disgusted with herself. And while he appreciated the shift away from fear, he did not want her berating herself either.

“One can hardly blame you for your concerns,” he assured her gently, feeling bold enough after holding her in his arms to run his hand down her spine. “The tales are very clear about his nefarious motivations.” If only they knew the truth.

Ellana nodded, rubbing at her cheeks vigorously enough to bring bright spots of color to them. “I just wish there was something I could do to keep him away. We have a saying. ‘May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.’ I wish there was a way to convince him to leave me alone. The attention of the Trickster is just _not_ something I need right now. Or ever,” she finished with a crooked smile.

“How does your clan keep him at bay?” Solas wondered. Some small part of him was enjoying this whole thing immensely. Visiting her in her dreams, driving her into his arms. Comforting her, and - perhaps most of all - speaking of himself in the third person. It was the sort of delicious duplicity that had earned him the nickname of Trickster.

Ellana leaned back, tilting her head to lean it against the back of the couch, and Solas drew the barrier closer around them, the smaller space feeling more intimate. “I’m surprised you’re even asking. You don’t hold the Dalish in high respect. Or the Creators, for that matter.” She turned her head just far enough to peer at him though one half-open eye. “Before now, I would have said that you didn’t believe in the Creators at all.”

“You know why I am not fond of your kin. As for the Creators, I have seen too much to doubt their existence. I simply doubt their divinity. The fade tales speak of them as elvhen.”

“You said that the fade did not tell true stories. That both sides of the battle at Ostagar were true, as seen through the eyes that lived them.”

Solas paused, abashed at being caught out. He did not realize that she had been listening so intently at his words - or that she would remember them. “I did say that. But there is truth in their impressions. While opinions on the battle differ, the main points remain salient. King Caelin was slain. The Grey Wardens died almost to a man. And Teyrn Loghain quit the field. Other truths can be determined by observation. How the camp is laid out speaks to the things considered important - those are kept to the center. The creeping taint coming before the horde speaks of a true blight. And the courage of a single mambari as it races across the field in defense of its master tells of love and loyalty few men are privileged to know. There are two truths in the world: the ones formed by opinion, and the base facts that are not altered, regardless of the eyes that view them.”

Ellana had lifted her head as he spoke, and looked at him now with eyes full of admiration. “You - Solas…” she shook her head. “How does an apostate, hiding from everyone, get to be so eloquent? Were you lying when you said you were a hermit?” She squinted her eyes at him playfully.

Solas smiled gently. “I suppose hermit might have been a term too strong for what I was. It implies living in one place. I traveled almost constantly.” There was a knock on his barrer. “Your absence has been noted, Dorian requests your presence.”

Ellana lifted her head, looking for the first time beyond the intimate moment they shared. “Yes, I’m surprised they left me alone this long. I wasn’t exactly subtle when I dashed through the great hall.”

He didn’t tell her that this wasn’t the first time that they had sought entrance. Or that they had been getting increasingly aggressive as he shrugged off their attempts to breach his power. “Shall I?” he gestured at the barrier.

“It’s probably for the best.”

He dropped the spell, absorbing unspent power back into his skin, glowing faintly blue for a moment. A wall of people rushed forward, and Ellana stood to her feet, hands held up in alarm. “Whoa! What is all this? I’m fine, really. Solas and I were just talking.”

“Fine!” Leliana snarled. “You were not fine an hour ago when you rushed through the great hall with tears streaming down your face. One of my agents tried to follow you, only to be blocked out by _him.”_

Perhaps he should not have been teasing Leliana so much.

Ellana raised a hand, and Leliana subsided - reluctantly. “Not here. Let’s go to the war room, and I’ll tell you what happened.”

Leliana nodded crisply and strode from the room. Everyone else dispersed slowly, though Dorian held back long enough to ask, “everything alright then, Inquisitor?”

Ellana gave him a ghost of a smile. “I’m not sure. But I’m working on it.”

“Good enough,” Dorian said with a smile. “I sometimes think you can change the world by will alone.”

He padded out of the room, leaving Ellana with a sense of distress. Even Dorian was a believer, now. She shook her head and made to leave, but Solas caught up with her, snagging her elbow in his hand.

“Are you sure this is wise? Telling them about the Dread Wolf?”

Ellana gave a weary sigh. “No, I’m not sure. They probably won’t believe me, but they need to know anyway. What if it _is_ true? What if he comes again?” She patted his hand, pulling slowly out of his grasp. “Do some research for me? See if you can’t find any true tales of Fen’Harel. I want to understand what he wants.”

Solas nodded numbly, and Ellana slipped away to the war room. He did not envy her attempting to convince believers of Andraste that the Dread Wolf was real. Even if he did sleep within their walls.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel teaches Feynriel and Ellana tells tales.

Solas’s dreams were busier now than they had ever been before. It was a good thing that his nature allowed him to draw energy directly from the fade, for his nights were anything but restful. He would spend the first small section in personal research; he would seek out ancient libraries and spirits, hoping for information about Corypheus: his location or his plans. Once frustrated, or if enough time had passed, Solas would abandon his research for the first of his interactions. Feynriel was always first, for he was by far the easiest.

Solas could use words to speak to the boy, for one thing. And the young somniari did not possess such overwhelming fear of him, for another. Whether that was because he was not as familiar with the tales of the Dread Wolf as Lavellen, or because Feynriel could see the Truth of it when Solas told the boy he meant him no harm, Solas did not know. The fact remained that Feynriel was simply wary and distrustful, while Ellana remained in the grip of stark terror.

Solas grew stronger with every artifact he found, with ever fade rift closed. It was no trial now to find Feynriel in the fade. As Lavellan was wont to say: he had the boy’s scent. His goal was to intrigue the boy with his mastery of the fade. To that end, he staged an encounter. Feynriel was predictable. He wandered the same sections of the fade often, never exploring beyond his immediate surroundings. Solas picked a space just beyond the edges of what Feynriel had claimed as his territory, and began.

First, he shaped the ground and sky. Dusky grey stones and scrub were replaced with waving green grass. The green of the fade sky lightened to a brilliant blue. Trees and brush completed the background of the image. He added details, to give it more life. Variants of green in the foliage, bugs in the branches. Half-pressed intentions in small patches of dirt, footprints of some animal just passed. Moulding the fade was very much like painting.

He was bending the trees out of their uniform perfection into something more natural when Feynriel appeared. The boy did not speak, and other than flashing the other Dreamer a smile of welcome, Solas did not acknowledge him. A few high, wispy clouds went into the sky, and a soft breeze came to play. Imps and wraiths arrived in ones and twos, drawn by the peace Solas was weaving into the image. They swirled slowly in the breeze, danced in the branches of the trees. A few settled upon the crown of his hair, and he ignored them as surely as he did the boy.

Feynriel laughed softly at the image, and Solas allowed a smile to cross his face. _That’s right, Feynriel,_ he thought. _See me. This is Fen’Harel. Fade walker and dream shaper. Painting pretty pictures, and letting imps sit on my head._

The clearing was coming together nicely. Solas shot a glance at the boy, to ensure he had his attention. Feynriel smiled and gestured for him to continue, obviously playing the game. Good. Everything he had crafted thus far was temporary, ephemeral as thought. Should he wake, or let go of the image for even a second, it would dissolve back into unformed dreams. It was time to make it _real._

Solas took a little of his magic, the essence of who his was - the somniari, the Dreamer - the force of will and quirk of nature that allowed him to bend the fade to his whim as the spirits did. Took it, and pressed it into the clearing he had wrought. Pressed, and wove, and replaced the black threads _of it is so because I will_ it with the white ones _of it is so because it IS._ Still a lie, still an image born of his imagination. But now, a lie that the fade itself believed. He held it all for a moment, examining the edges, testing the pattern for strength. Then, he let the whole thing go.

Feynriel felt him release the image, cried out for the loss of it. But the sound was cut short as he realized the clearing stayed, as Solas turned and faced him, hands folded behind his back, a smug smile upon his lips.

“Wh-” Feynriel stared about with wide eyes, casting his power out in gentle probes, trying to discover what had happened. “What did you _do?_ How is this even _possible?”_ He felt for the black threads that always were a testament to the creation of an image, but there were none. “Did you just... _change_ the fade? Actually make its natural form something else?”

“Very good, Feyrniel. That is exactly what I did. Should I die tomorrow, this clearing will remain. Only another Dreamer, with will and power equal to my own, can unmake this space now.”

Feynriel stared. “And you say you are no god.”

Fen’Harel laughed, a sound too light and carefree to come from one so evil. “Is it truly so hard to believe? This is not a skill that is mine alone. Any Dreamer can do this, though few learn to.” The boy still stared at him skeptically, so Fen’Harel gestured him over. “Come, I will show you.”

Feynriel took a step backwards at the thought.

Solas sighed. “Where is this fear of me coming from? Tales passed down by the Dalish? Half-remembered stories that should not even carry the weight of fairytale. They say I bring nightmares. I _could._ But so could you. Shall they fear you then, for the things you are capable of? Perhaps they should fear you _more._ I, at least, understand the full extent of my power; can control its every aspect with a waking clarity you utterly lack.” Solas extended his hand in a sweeping gesture, pointing beyond the clearing in the fade to the areas beyond. Wisps and imps danced in the meadow, but outside, demons slowly crept up. “You draw them with your power. You can reject them; but you’ve yet to encounter one with strength to match yours. The mages, the dreamless, they call pride the strongest. The most cunning. But it is _fear,_ young Dreamer, who holds the strongest sway. And _desire_ who is the most sly.” Solas stopped, turned directly to Feynriel. “You _must_ learn greater control. Or you will one day draw the attention of the Nightmare, or of Ecstasy.  And on that day, I shall not be able to help you.”

Feynriel swallowed, looked at the assembling demons. He pushed at them with his mind, tried to drive them off. But with so many, the force of his will was dispersed as it flowed over them. The weakest, spirits of longing or sadness, those fled readily enough. But terror, lasciviousness, and yes, pride, - those did not so much as twitch. Despite himself, Feynriel found himself backing away from them where they pressed up against the edges of Fen’Harel’s territory.

Movement to the side, and Fen’Harel was stepping up, sliding forward, placing himself clearly between Feynriel and the assembling hordes. “He is not yours.”

“He could be,” rumbled Pride. “So easily.”

“Not so easy as you think. He is young, but even now, you could not sway him. You cannot lie to a Dreamer, Pride. Not once they have learned to see. Begone. There is nothing for you here.” Fen’Harel did not move; Feynriel felt no stirrings of power. Yet all the demons stepped back a pace.

“Give him to us, Wolf,” Lust spoke up, her lips ripe and her breasts full. “There are things even you do not know. Secrets whispered, writhing in the dark. I will tell you. I will share _all_ with you. Only give him to us.”

Feynriel, desiring her despite himself, felt a thrill of fear at her words. He wanted to turn _himself_ over to them. But Fen’Harel laughed in her face.

“Am I to be tempted now, spirit?” he waved a hand in invitation. “Come, then. Tell me of the things you offer. Sweet and savory as darkest wine. Bold and beautiful as maiden fair. Tell me of wonders lost - returned with an easy wave of your hand. Offer the elegance of Arlathan, the freedom of Fen’lasa. Promise me all and more.”

_“Anything_ you want,” lust panted.

“No.”

Lust fell back as if she had been struck.

Fen’Harel turned, grasped Feynriel’s arm - when had they gotten so close? - and drug the boy forward until they stood side-by-side. “Look at it, Feynriel. See it for what it is.”

Feynriel’s mouth was dry. “I see her.”

Fen’Harel shook Feynriel by the arm, and the boy’s head snapped to look at the older man.

“What?” he asked, voice too sharp. “You told me to look, I’m looking!”

“That is no woman, Feynriel. It is a spirit; gender is meaningless. _Look_ at it. Use the eyes of the fade, not the eyes of the flesh.”

Feynriel stared at him for a long moment before nodding painfully and turning to look back at the demons again, grateful for Fen’Harel’s strong grip upon his arm. Never had he faced so many demons at once before. “Why are they all here?”

“For you,” Fen’Harel told him calmly. “For me. Dreamers offer a heady high, the promise of so much more power than the average mage. If they can be caught unaware. An almost impossible task, once they are learned. But so easy for the unschooled. Look at them. See beyond the image they portray to the spirit inside. They shape themselves to your perceptions. Do not let them.”

“I don’t-” Fen’Harel shook Feynriel’s arm again, fingers digging in, and the boy nodded. “All right.”

Feynriel turned to look, searching for the black threads. And he found them, in the very bodies of the demons, as Fen’Harel had promised. He plucked them away, marveling that they had hidden from him at all. Pride withered to ego, lust to longing. His belief in them, in the strength their forms implied, had given them power. They were easy to banish, now.

“I had no idea I could affect their shapes like that.”

Fen’Harel released the Feynriel’s arm, moving away. “The Beyond is a world of dreams, Feynriel. Never forget that you are a dreamer. That, when you are here, you are asleep. Your unconscious mind holds great sway. You must always be aware of your thoughts, lest they give you away, give power to those that hunt you, draw unsought trouble.”

“Am I still so vulnerable?” Feynriel mourned, following Fen’Harel as the wolf settled at the base of a tree. “I’ve not been tortured by nightmares for months.”

“Yes, and no. I drew you here, beyond your territory. Your hold here is weaker, in a place I have claimed as my own. And two Dreamers are a more appealing meal than just one. But a territory is a limiting thing. Within it, you rule supreme, so long as it is not wrest from your grasp. But there is always another who holds more power. And if you leave so much of yourself bound to a specific place, then you cannot wander. In a land that shifts constantly, that sort of thing is dangerous indeed.” He gestured for Feynriel to sit, and after only a moment’s hesitation, the boy did so. “Consider what would happen if you were to travel. To sleep and wake in a space in the fade you had not claimed. What then?”

Feynriel frowned. “Why wouldn’t I just wake in my territory?”

“The fade reflects the physical world. You have claimed a location. The mountain does not move, no matter what the king desires.”

“Then aren’t you limited, by claiming this location?”

Fen’Harel smiled at Feynriel with pride. “Clever. But no. It is not tied to me, insofar as it requires no effort on my part to maintain. As you observed earlier, the fade itself now holds this shape. I gave it this shape, and thus it favors me. But it does not limit me. Rather, it provides a safe harbor that I may return to.”

Feynriel pondered that for a moment. “Why are you doing all this? Teaching me, protecting me. You didn’t kill me when we first met, you’re…”

Fen’Harel closed his eyes, leaned his head back on the tree, as if basking in the sunlight. “I am old, Feynriel. And hated by all that know my name. That is not an easy burden to bear. You are a Dreamer. Kin. I…” He shrugged, an eloquent roll of his shoulders that told Feynriel nothing.

 The young somniari studied the fallen god for a moment longer. “Then teach me, Dread Wolf, to walk the Beyond like you.”

 Fen’Harel’s smile was fierce with joy. _“Ma nuvenin.”_

_As you wish._

 -

 Later, after Feynriel had fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, Solas’s thoughts turned to the Inquisitor. He couldn’t decide if it would be better to wait a few days before visiting her dreams again, or if he should make a nightly appearance. But the decision was taken neatly out of his hands as a ringing summons for Fen’Harel reverberating through the fade, amplified by the mark on her hand. He shifted to wolf, and padded towards her, moving at a trot. It would not do to seem too eager to come to her call; she still thought him a god, after all.

He found her standing along an unremarkable path, staring intently at the power pooled in her left hand. She was so focused that she hadn’t seen him appear. He settled onto his haunches, and gave a soft whuff. 

Ellana’s head snapped up, and the ringing of his name abruptly ceased. Solas banished the demons drawn to her power with a thought. It was a very foolish thing she’d done, calling for him like that. She had that which the demons craved, but not the skill to defend it. He should have arrived faster.

“Fen’Harel,” she said, sketching a slight bow, and he nodded his head to her in turn. “I wanted to let you know that we will be returning to the Exalted Plains within a few days, and I will be honoring your statues when we do so. I would ask your patience while we travel.”

Solas huffed in annoyance. He didn’t want her _worship_.

“Then, what is it you want of me? I will do whatever I can.” She looked at him with clear eyes, her fear well hidden.

He thought about approaching her. Nuzzling her hand with his nose until it rested against his head, urging her to scratch and stroke. He thought about bounding away, returning with a fox, or rabbit, or deer; gifting her with a meal. He thought about shaping the fade to match Arlathan, or the Exalted Planes, or Skyhold itself, showing her secrets she had never known. He thought about becoming a man and destroying all faith she had in him.

He closed his eyes and turned away. He knew he would not give in to temptation, but it was a powerful force all its own.

“Please, my lord!”

He heard her knees hit the ground and stiffened. Surely not-? He looked over his shoulder at her, to find her bowed, hands to the ground, forehead pressed to their backs.

“Take my life, but I beg you to spare my clan.”

Pain so sharp it stole his breath lanced through Solas’ heart. He did not want this from her, he never desired another's fear. But that it was _Ellana_ prostrating herself before him...he absolutely could not allow it to continue. He turned back around, caging his power so as not to freeze her skin, and walked as noisily as possible up to her. Nose to her shoulder, he pushed her upright, and she was pliant to his touch. Silent tears were streaming down her face, and he licked them away before he knew what he was doing.

He reconsidered this plan of his to tell her the truth. How could she possibly come to trust him, when fear like this was bred into her bones? When every thought of him was to either hide, or cower? He backed off, crying out brokenly. He hated being the cause of her distress. She quavered, and he longed to comfort her. But the kindest thing to do right now….was to leave. He bowed his head and backed away, not meeting her eyes. When he was at what he judged to be a safe distance, he let out a sharp yip, and raced away.

-

Ellana visited him the following day, to tell him of her dreams. She perched on his table, papers rustling as she pushed them to the side.

“I don’t know what he _wants,”_ Ellana said in frustration - covering the fear that sat like ice in her breast.

“Perhaps he does not want anything.” Solas suggested mildly.

Ellana shot him a withering look. “You don’t know him, you don’t know the tales. I know you think the Dalish beneath you, but the stories we tell of the Dread Wolf are clear - he cannot be trusted and he _always_ wants something.”

Solas bowed his head, faking contrition and trying to control his emotions. _“Ir abelas,_ I did not mean to upset you.” He raised his head, to meet her gaze. “Perhaps you would be willing to share your wisdom?”

She looked at him warily from her seat atop his table, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Solas winced. He deserved her mistrust in this matter. He had been nothing but condescending and rude about her heritage, disdaining them for knowing so little about their history. But it was not their fault, was it? He’d seen for himself how little remained of what once was.

“I am sorry. You have chastised me before about my attitude towards the Dalish, and you are correct in the matter. I may have visited many clans, but I never took the time to listen, instead telling them how their entire worldview was wrong. How could I expect them to listen when I was not willing to do the same? Even if _everything_ were wrong, and surely that cannot be the case, it does not matter. For there was a darkness in Arlathan that should not be sought, and I have been foolish enough to ignore it.”

Her gaze softened, but she still remained silent. Contemplating. “You truly wish to know?”

“I do.” Solas moved forward, settling himself before her in the chair at his table. He pulled one of her feet into his lap from where it was swinging freely, and pulled it free of its shoe. He scooted the chair slightly closer, grasped her foot firmly, and looked up at her where she stared down at him from her perch in bemusement. “Teach me, _hahren.” Elder._

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing around the rotunda nicely. He could not help but smile in response. The sound of her joy brought him pleasure. “All right, _da’len._ Listen close as I tell you of our gods.”

She leaned back on her arms, pressing her foot into his hands, and he brought the power of fire into his touch, warming his hands. He dug his thumbs into the ball of her foot, stroking downward with firm pressure into her arch, careful not to incite laughter. The trick to a good foot massage lay in applying just enough force not to tickle, without upsetting the delicate nerves and tendons beneath. It was a skill he’d long practiced.

Ellana closed her eyes, head tilted slightly back, and the light from the rotunda bleached her markings away, allowing Solas to see her free of the vallaslin for the first time. And while she was beautiful with them, the image of her as a free woman stripped him of his control. His hands went slack, his mouth went dry, and she tilted her head down to stare at him, glowing with grace and power.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, his thoughts a breath upon the air.

She smiled, accepting the words as her due, and began to speak.

“In the ancient days before Arlathan, when the Gods still walked the earth, Fen’Harel was not yet the Betrayer. He moved among the People, no temple of his own, answering or ignoring the calls of the people as his whim took him.

“He haunted the dreams of a king, whose faithful Corsair was at his side always; for the king was good and kind, everything the Wolf hated. But the dog was loyal, standing guard against even his masters dreams, and he jumped up with a hunter’s howl when the Wolf appeared to torture his master with nightmares. The dog hunted the Wolf, driving him away from his master’s rest, chasing until he caught hold of the wolf’s tail in his jaws. Unable to escape, but also unable to catch the dog who held him tight, Fen’Harel chewed his own tail off to flee in safety. Now he thinks twice before haunting one with a dog.”

Laughter at the image brightened Solas’s face, but he said not a word as he switched feet and gestured for her to continue.

“Andruil is the goddess of the hunt, and it was she who turned her beloved follower Ghilan’anin into the first halla, then raised her as a goddess. As such, the halla is sacred to her. But the Great Wolf did not care, and he hunted the halla as he willed, without permission. Andruil caught him, lashing him to a tree with great ropes, spun from Sylaise’s own hands. She would take him back to her temple, bind him to her bed, and he would service her for a year and a day, to pay for his crimes.

“But as she made camp that night, Anaris came upon them, swearing vengeance upon Fen’Harel for his crimes against the Forgotten Ones, promising death. Andruil liked the hunt, but she had no desire for the dead, and so she fought Anaris to keep her prize. The gods were evenly matched, and the battle waged long, with Fen’Harel looking on with mischief in his eyes. He cried out to Anaris, revealing a hole in both Andruil’s guard and armor. Anaris struck out with his sword, and Andruil went down with a cry of despair.

“He turned to face the Trickster Wolf, murder upon his face, and Fen’Harel cried out again, revealing a weak spot along Anaris’ spine. For he had not seen Andruil rise behind him, wounded but alive. Andruil struck true, and the wound was deep; both gods slipped into a healing slumber, to recover from their wounds. And while they did so, Fen’Harel chewed through his bindings, making good on his escape.”

Solas frowned, remembering the event quite clearly. Not exactly how it had happened, but still. Of all the things that had happened, all the things he had done, _this_ was what they recalled?

Ellana nudged him with the foot he had laid atop his thigh, and he glanced up to see a playfully chastising face pointed at him. “Your mind wanders, _da’len,”_ she accused lightly.

“My apologies, _hahren,_ please continue your tales.” Solas finished her foot and moved his hands up to her calf, rolling her trouser leg up to her knee. He kneaded the muscle, feeling its strength beneath her soft skin. There was no excess fat to her, her body lean and toned from the harsh life of the Dalish, and the even harsher realities of leading the Inquisition. She never ate enough.

Ellana let slip a soft groan of pleasure before continuing.

“We call Fen’Harel the Trickster, for though he never lies, he twists the truth beyond recognition.

“There was a beast that ravaged this small town, and they sent pleas out to the gods. Andruil for her to hunt it down, Mythal for mercy to the people, Fen’Harel for his wolves to slay the beast. And only Fen’Harel answered. He came to the people, and they begged him to kill it, and for a whim, he agreed. But when he laid eyes upon it, he knew that if he were to attempt a confrontation, he would be slain. For this was a beast of Sylaise, and it knew no fear of the gods - its strength was that of the mountain. So he pulled out a bow, and shot a single arrow straight up into the sky, so high that it did not come down. Then he turned and left the village.

“The men raced after him, crying in dismay, ‘you said that you would kill the beast, you said you would save us!’ And Fen’Harel turned to them, his face full of wicked pleasure. ‘When did I ever say that I would save you?’ And he left the people to their fate.

“That night, the beast attacked again, with more viciousness than ever before. It slayed men, women, the elderly. And when it opened its massive jaws to attack the children, Fen’Harel’s slow arrow fell from the sky into its open mouth, slaying the beast where it stood. And though the village wept for the deaths, they offered Fen’Harel their gratitude, bringing his statues offerings and gifts. For he had kept his word, and the beast was dead, slain by Fen’Harel’s cunning and his slow arrow.

“Through these tales, we learn the truth of the Dread Wolf. The tale of Fen’Harel and the Tree teaches us that he cares not for the things that others hold sacred, and that he holds a silver tongue that cannot be trusted. The tale of Fen’Harel and the Coursair teaches that he hates that which is kind and good, but also that he can be driven away with loyalty. And the Slow Arrow teaches that his words are honeyed lies, and he hides his true intentions behind them, killing with cunning.

“It is said that, after he sealed away all the Gods, Fen’Harel spent centuries in the darkest corners of the Beyond, giggling to himself for his trickery, and the people fell into despair. He still haunts us from the Beyond, hunting down wayward souls and devouring them with wicked glee. He sends nightmares to the People, taunting us with death, and the remembrance of all that we lost.”

Solas placed her foot gently upon his thigh, and took up her other, rolling her trousers up, massaging her flesh. So many tales, with just the tiniest kernel of truth. He fought the desire to respond in kind, to tell them as they were. To clear his name. He glanced up at Ellana, and saw her waiting for him to speak with resignation. Indeed, she _expected_ him to scoff at her stories, tell her how wrong she was, cut her people down once more. And she was _right._ It was _very_ difficult to keep his words to himself, and he bit his tongue in an effort to still it.

“No words from the Dream Walker?” Ellana asked, her mild tone not hiding the bite underneath.

Solas shrugged carelessly, his hands moving in a soothing rhythm. “They are your stories, _lethallan._ And you tell them well.” Her eyebrows went up expectantly, but Solas said nothing more than, “I thank you for sharing them with me.”

Solas went up a notch or two in Ellana’s estimation by his silence and gratitude. She knew he did not believe her tales, that he probably disdained them as false history at best and outright lies at worst. But he gave no indication that he wished to correct her, and instead finished his massage in placid silence.

“Thank you,” she said softly as he rolled her trousers back down and slipped her shoes back on her feet.

He shook his head. “The honor is mine.”

Honor. The word shook Ellana to her bones. So many of her friends now considered her touched by the Maker. Cassandra had been the first to fall, calling her Herald in a tone filled with reverence with which she addressed no one else. Cullen was fast on her heels, never calling her by her name, no matter how much Ellana had urged him to. Dorian’s conversion was slower, but all too soon, the playful banter in this tone failed to hid the awe with which he viewed her. Even Varric, dear Varric who never took anything seriously, thought her the true Herald of Andraste. He struggled not to treat her differently, she had asked as much of him, but there were some days when the fervor of belief burned in his eyes. She could not look at him, then. Solas was one of the very few who still treated her as a person, a leader perhaps, but a person underneath. He was still willing to argue with her. Debate ideas. His tone never held more than respect, and he never bowed his head to her in supplication. That he, too, should be touched by Belief as so many others had been...she could not stand it.

She made a strangled gasp, and Solas’s head came up in alarm, just in time to open his arms and catch her as she fell into his lap. Her knees bent on either side of his hips, a position that had the potential to be fraught with sexual tension.

But there was nothing sexual about the way she gripped his shoulders, nothing sensual about the fear chilling her eyes. “Please, no. Solas, please. Not you, too!” she practically begged him.

“Inquisitor, what?” Solas said, genuinely perplexed.

She screwed her eyes closed and bit her lip, her face a mask of grief. “Don’t look at me that way, please. Everyone else in this place thinks of me as the Herald of Andraste. Someone touched by divine providence. Even Varric - perhaps especially Varric. You were the only one left who saw me as just an unlucky person.” Her eyes opened, pained and distraught. “Please, Solas. _Please.”_

He softened in understanding, folding her in his arms until her forehead rested against his shoulder. He ran a soothing hand up and down her spine, while the other lay chastely on the outside of her thigh. _“Lethallan,_ I am sorry. I did not mean to give you the impression that I felt that way about you. I do not believe in any god, elven or Andrastian. I am honored because of who you are. The light of your spirit is blinding.”

She did not move, but breathed quietly against him.

“You do not believe me? What shall I do, to prove my lack of reverence? Shall I put salt in your tea, lizards in your bed? Shall I sneak behind you like a child and pull your hair?”

Her shoulders began to shake, and given that he had a strong suspicion that it was laughter and not tears, he continued.

“Perhaps I should replace your ink with one that changes color after it dries. Or put cinnamon in your pillow. If these ideas do not draw your favor, perhaps I could elicit Sera’s help. I’m sure she would have adequate ideas.”

“No!” Ellana burst out, sitting up straight in his lap, face red with suppressed laughter. “Don’t you dare, you cruel, cruel man!”

He removed the hand that had fallen naturally on her hip and put it to his chest, pulling a face that mocked injury. “Lethallan, you wound me gravely.” Centuries of practice allowed him to speak blandly, the sarcasm thick in his voice for its conspicuous absence. “I only seek your pleasure, in all things. Command me, my Herald, and I am yours.” She looked suddenly unsure again, so he widened his eyes into overblown innocence.

She chuckled, swatted him lightly on the shoulder, and climbed off his lap without the slightest attempt at flirtation.

“All right. Fine. Maybe I overreacted. You just scared me with the whole ‘honored’ thing. You were so serious!” She stepped completely away from the table, pausing as she made to leave the room and attend her other duties. “Maybe next time you can tell me stories of the Dread Wolf.”

“If...that is what you desire,” Solas acquiesced hesitantly.

She rolled her eyes, but left the room without a response.

That night, there was a stick of cinnamon lying innocently on her pillow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel holds class, Ellana goes hunting, and the party heads back out into the Exalted Plains.

“No, stop.”

Feynriel sighed in exasperation, but turned to face Fen’Harel. “What now?”

“You are still grasping at the fade, moulding it to your expectations. Let go of what you _want_ to see, and look at what _is.”_

Feynriel grumped, but tried again. He looked at the strange rock formations, the sickly green sky, the wisps floating off in the distance, and shut them all away. He closed his eyes, even though Fen’Harel had told him that would do him no good, and tried to be empty of everything. He thought he felt something, a shift in the fade, his excitement spiked and then -

“No.”

“Ugh!” Feynriel threw his arms out and almost flopped on the ground, but some glint in the Dread Wolf’s eye reigned in his more dramatic impulses. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you just _show_ me what the fade looks like here?”

Fen’Harel smirked, and Feynriel’s stomach dropped. The somniari learned early on that the title of Trickster had not been bestowed on Fen’Harel lightly. He delighted in playing little tricks on the mage, usually involving forcing Feynriel to ask for something that he did not understand. As now.

“As you wish,” Fen’Harel replied, and did _something_ to Feynriel that left him reeling.

The boy gasped and dropped to the ground bonelessly, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The world swum before his eyes, and he struggled with the very real feelings of nausea. This was not the first time that Fen’Harel had done something that altered his world view, and he desperately hoped that _this time_ he wouldn’t wake to find himself covered in vomit.

When the feeling faded, he looked up, finding himself in a reflection of the villa in which he stayed with his master. Fen’Harel wasn’t in sight, but through a set of windows, Feynriel could make out a massive mob headed his way, pitch covered torches flaming in the night. “Shit!” he called, and scrambling to his feet and dashing down the hallway. Before he had gotten very far, Fen’Harel stepped _through_ the wall to his right and snagged Feynriel’s elbow as he ran past, spinning the boy to a stop. “What are you doing?” Feynriel snapped. “There’s a mob coming - we have to get out of here!”

Fen’Harel just laughed. “There is no mob. You are simply seeing the fade as it is, witnessing the memories pressed upon this place by the physical world.”

Feynriel knew he was in the fade. He _knew_ it. If only because the fade was the only place Fen’Harel ever made an appearance. But… “It doesn’t look like the fade,” he objected, gesturing at the walls. “There are no threads.”

 “Of course not, this is no construct. The fabric of the fade itself has been altered by these events. This is what it looks like naturally.”

Feynriel paused, fighting with what his senses told him was imminent danger, and the knowledge that this was a memory in the fade. “But your meadow has threads,” he objected thoughtfully. He glanced at Fen’Harel, who only made a shoo-ing motion. Feynriel crept back towards the window through which he could see the mob growing.

“What do you see?” Fen’Haral asked, stepping up alongside him, but on the wrong side, leaving him staring at a blank wall.

“Uhm...the crowd is gathering?” Feynriel said in confusion. “If you stood in front of the window, you’d be able to tell.”

“I cannot see what you see. I am not where you are. Should I dream the memories of the fade where I lay, I would see something completely different than your mob.” Fen’Harel explained.

“But...that makes no sense. We’re standing in the same spot!” Feynriel objected.

“True,” Fen’Harel shrugged. “But we are not _sleeping_ in the same spot.”

Feynriel chewed on that thought, the mob outside that had so terrified him forgotten. “So,” he drew the word out, pondering. “If the memories of the fade that you can see are directly related to where you go to sleep, then…”

“To dream of new places, you must visit new areas, yes.” Fen’Harel turned to look at his student. “As for the meadow, there are threads because it _is_ a construct. It is a trick I have played on the fade itself.”

Feynriel pondered that, while he watched a man emerge from the house and approach the mob fearlessly. When the man was cut down and the mob rushed forward, he turned to speak with Fen’Harel, only to find the man gone.

 

-

 

Despite her best intentions, it still took them the better part of two weeks to set out from Skyhold for the Exalted Plains. And another to make it to the first permanent camp.

Every night, the Dread Wolf visited her.

She would wander the fade, as she was wont when there were no dreams to be found, her staff clasped loosely in her hand. Then, at some unspecified time, she would turn a corner in the fade and...there he would be. White as purest snow, eyes of ice. Tail around his toes. He never approached her, never tried to communicate. He just sat, patiently, for her to find him. And again as she stumbled through a greeting.

She would tell him of her progress: how close they were to leaving Skyhold, how far down the road the were, what her plans were for the cleaning of his statues. She asked if he had a temple she could pay homage at.

He only looked at her kindly.

She offered to spread news of his return to the Dalish on the planes and he grumbled. Not telling her no, but expressing disapproval. Finally, the night before she would begin cleaning, more than a month after he began haunting her dreams, she snapped.

“What do you _want_ from me?” she demanded crossly, at her wits end. “I will do whatever you desire, perform whatever task you like. But you just have to _tell_ me. _What do you want?”_

_Perhaps,_ Solas thought. _It is time to communicate, just a little. Before she attempts to kill me out of frustration._ He reached out and shaped the fade, showing her images of them walking together peaceably, hunting game, of him showing her treasures hidden by time.

“You...want a friend?” she asked, stunned. “You’re lonely.”

 Solas folded his ears back and whined. That was not the impression he’d wanted to give her, but the truth of her words had rocked him. Because he _was_ lonely. Fiercely so. For all the people in Skyhold, for all her attention during their waking hours, there were none alive who knew his tales, knew his truths, knew _him._

 She sat down abruptly, and Solas lay down to keep from towering over her. “That is...not what I expected.”

 He grunted and shifted his hips to the side, splaying his feet out, trying to convey that he meant her no harm.

 “The Dread Wolf wants a friend,” Ellana said in wonder, and Solas couldn’t _quite_ suppress the snarl at her use of that name. He wasn’t the _Dread Wolf_ with her. Just Fen’Harel. Just Solas. She quirked a smile. “Not a fan of that title? What about Trickster?”

 He showed her an image of him stealing underwear off clothes lines.

 She laughed. “And He Who Hunts Alone?”

 He repeated the image of them hunting together.

 She did not ask about Betrayer.

 “All right then, Fen’Harel. You want to hunt? Let’s hunt.” She stood to her feet, brushing fade-dust from her trousers.

 When she looked up, there was a bow and quiver hovering in the air before her. She reached out and touched them, suddenly frightened at how real they were. How real _he_ was. She was only managing to be calm by telling herself over and over that he had stalked her dreams for weeks, and never once had he appeared as anything other than calm. In fact, he’d been almost timid. He may have waited for her to find him, but he never approached her, always allowing her to instigate all their interactions. He never asked anything of her. In fact, she had been the one to suggest hunting. But...hunting with He Who Hunts Alone. What had _possessed_ her to suggest it?

 As if aware of her thoughts, Fen’Harel whined, the most pitiful sound she’d heard, and rolled completely onto his side. Not onto his back, oh no. But with all four paws sticking out, and his head resting on the ground. His eyes rolled in his head to look at her, but he kept his muzzle (full of sharp teeth) pointed away from her.

 He really was trying very hard not to scare her.

 She took a deep breath and released it, grabbing the bow in firm hands, and flinging the quiver over her shoulder. “You said you wanted to hunt, right? Can’t hunt like that. Let’s go.”

 He bound to his feet, and she suppressed the urge to stumble backwards. He was so _large_. Wolves shouldn’t come in hart sizes.

 She gritted her teeth. “I warn you, I’ve not hunted at all in months, much less with a bow. I might be terrible.”

 His mouth opened for the first time and for a wild second, she expected to hear him speak. But his tongue simply lolled out the side of his mouth inelegantly and she knew that he was laughing at her.

 The fade shifted around them, and they were standing in a forest much like the ones she used to wander in as a child. When she looked back at him, the ephemeral snow was gone from his shoulders, his color darkening from blinding white to chalk. She could even see dust on his paws and along his flank now. Ellana pulled an arrow from her quiver and notched it in her bow, not pulling it back just yet.

 Fen’Harel pricked his ears, and glided past her into the brush.

 Creators help her, she was hunting with the Dread Wolf.

 Making careful steps, she paced after him, wondering what he would conjure for them to kill. This was still the fade, for all that it looked like a true forest. He was even better at this than Solas was. The tree bark was cracked naturally, bugs hissed in her ears, even the underbrush rustled with her footsteps. Solas’ Haven had been good, but he’d missed things like the sacks of grain inevitably laid about the place, and the people always passing to and fro. But in _this_ forest, there were no inconsistencies.

 A shadow passed by her to the left, and Ellana drew back her bow, to find herself aimed at the Dread Wolf. His ears pricked at her, but otherwise showed no sign that he was bothered with her pointing an arrow at his heart. Then again, this bow was his construct, just as the forest was. It would be insultingly easy for him to cause it to break, or vanish, leaving her helpless before him.

 His eyes cast the forest behind her, and she lowered her bow. She had no choice but to trust him; trust the Trickster. Creators but she was mad to be doing this. She never should have pushed.

 He slunk back into the bushes, but never quite vanished from her sight. He made rather more noise than a wolf should, and she suspected it was to let her know where he was at all times. All this consideration from him was making her jumpy. Was he ernest in his intention to be non-threatening? Or was he simply laying an elaborate trap?

Unable to see any way out of it, whatever his goal, Ellana simply played along, sliding into the mindset of a hunter.

 

-

 

Solas was delighted and dismayed in turns. She was playing along with his game, hunting through the forest, working together to find and bring down game. But he was beginning to suspect that a game that involved _death,_ even the unreal death that would be present here, was a particularly bad move on his part. What made him think that having her watch him kill prey would be a good idea? He should have insisted on a quiet walk through the fade instead.

Part of him wanted to stop the whole thing, cancel the illusion and just leave her be for the rest of the night. But he was committed now, and backing out would send the wrong message. With the way her mind worked, he wasn’t exactly sure _what_ message that might be, but he was sure it wouldn’t be a good one. So he was trapped in a bad decision, and was forced to play it out. Not the first time he had outwitted himself.

Perhaps he could hunt without killing. The thrill was in the chase, after all.

He had planned on hunting a great bear, its size enough to give him a challenge. But, if he was not killing, smaller game would be better. Maybe he could scare the game towards her? Let her make the killing blow. Perhaps he could even act the bird-dog, flush the fowl from water and then retrieve them when she shot them from the sky.

Thoughts whirling, he banished the bear, and replaced it with half a dozen fennic foxes. Agile and wiley, they would give him a good chase. It would be fun; it would be fine.

The first one dashed across his path, and he took off after it, giving a short howl to get Ellana’s attention. She dove into the underbrush after him, uncaring of the branches and leaves striking her face. He easily outpaced the fox, herding it in a wide circle back to her, and she understood immediately, planting her feet as she pulled the bow back. She mumbled a prayer to Anduril that put his hackles up, and let fly with her arrow. Despite her earlier claims, her aim was true, and the fox went down with barely a squeak.

She glanced up at him with a grin, which quickly dropped off her face. Her whole demeanor changed into a defensive crouch, shoulders hunching. He could even see her fingers twitching. For staff or arrow, he wasn’t sure.

He became aware that the fur along his spine was standing on end, and a low rumble was emerging from parted lips. Turning his back on her, he took two steps away and closed his eyes, trying to smooth his fur back down. When that didn’t work, he sat down, curled his tail around his paws, and stared up at the canopy, trying to _will_ his irritation away. It wasn’t particularly working.

There was a long pause in which he guessed she was reevaluating his trustworthiness...before he heard her come up and grab the fox from where it lay. He listened as she slid her arrow free and then as there were a series of distinctive sounds that could only mean she was cleaning the kill.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes, fighting off the urge to howl his sadness at the sky. He shouldn’t be so discouraged. He was limited in this form to body language and whatever images he could conjure for her from the fade. He could not speak to her, even as a shade, because she was no Dreamer to know when he spoke the truth.  But it was _difficult_ to see her looking at him with such distrust and fear, to know that, while she liked Solas (rather more than she should) she didn’t realize that Solas was only a mask. Created from the mildest parts of him. Hollow as the promises he had made to Mythal.

_“Ir abelas,_ Fen’Harel,” she told him softly. “I did not mean to…” What word was she searching for? Blaspheme? Insult? He hoped those words never passed her lips. “I should not have said that. I know how you feel about the rest of the Pantheon.”

Perhaps the only truth she knew about him.

He shouldn’t be this upset. He _shouldn’t._ He was fully aware that the language of El’vhen’an was lost to time, and that few phrases remained. But he never expected to hear the plea for a merciful death, that was cried so frequently by abused slaves, fall from her lips as if it were a request for a boon.

He sighed and twisted to face her, the movement causing him to lay on his side once again, back feet kicked out. She froze when he moved, and only began to breathe again when he laid his head on his paws. He’d heard the tales the Dalish spread about him, from her own lips. He knew how damning they were. Mostly false, with barely enough truth for him to discern which memories of his they applied to. Still, spoken as fact, she thought him a liar who allowed most of a village to be slaughtered, and a rogue who attacked kings for being good. And a Betrayer, who locked the gods away out of spite, and who then spent a century _giggling to himself in glee_ over their absence. What an absurd idea.

He watched her, never lifting his head, as she gathered sticks for a fire. She lit it with a touch of her magic, and he despaired. What was he doing here? Fear of the Dread Wolf was bred into the very _bones_ of the Dalish. And while Ellana was the most open-minded Dalish he had ever met, she was still a product of her birth. As First of her clan, she had both heard _and_ memorized the tales of him. It spoke of her strength that she would dare to turn her back on him long enough to collect wood.

She cut strips of meat off the bone with a sharp knife she pulled from nowhere (did she realize what she had done?) and began to roast them over the fire. A silence settled over them, awkward and impossible to break, seeing as how he could not speak without changing his form. And she _could not_ see him as a man. Not yet.

But he needed to speak to her.

He set out a gentle calling, a request for a spirit of curiosity. After a short time, one appeared; nothing more than a white whisp, it nevertheless possessed the ability to communicate with her. Ellana looked up when it began to speak for him in its chiming voice.

“Fen’Harel greets you and begs forgiveness for any fear he has caused you.”

Ellana gasped and her head whipped around to stare at him. He thumped his tail against the ground once.

“Fen’Harel apologizes for growling, he is certain that you are unaware of the meaning behind your words, and assures you that it will not happen again.”

“Th-thank him-” Ellana began, but stopped when the great wolf let out a gust of breath so strong the flames almost flickered out. She turned to address him directly. “Thank you for the apologies, but they are not needed. You have been very courteous.”

He whuffed, eyes like ice flickering in the flames.

“What did you say that upset him?” the spirit asked.

Ellana glanced at the wolf, but he only closed his eyes. Taking that for permission, she repeated the phrase softly.

“‘Anduril, lady of the hunt, free me from my torment with your swift arrow.’” the spirit translated for her.

“What?” Ellana gasped.

The spirits laugh was like a chime. “You have forgotten much of the language through the ages. What did you think you were saying?”

“I give thanks to Anuril for this prosperous hunt,” Ellana said in a daze. Had she really been asking for death each time she hunted? But - no, she realized with a start. Her whole clan had asked for death. How many other clans said the same thing? Her cheeks burned in mortification.

_“Ar an’nathir Anduril ghilanas enasalin,”_ the wisp said, in the chime that meant the words were from Fen’Harel.

_“Ar an’nathir Anduril ghilana enasalin,”_ Ellana repeated, trying to burn the phrase into her brain. She’d ask Solas about it once she woke up.

 Fen’Harel rumbled pleasantly, and Ellana flushed again. Never in her dreams as a child had she expected to share her dreams with a Fen’Harel who would try so hard not to scare her, to then turn around and give her language lessons. It was all so surreal.

 “Fen’Harel promises you his protection in the fade. He promises that he will not hunt you or your clan, and offers his word - whatever you will take of it - that he holds no ill will against you.”

 Ellana was stunned to silence.

How could she possibly respond to that? This was _Fen’Harel_ the _Dread Wolf._ The god who had sealed all the others way. Who had banished them, never to return, and then abandoned the people to an eternity without guidance. He had _betrayed_ them, probably _murdered_ them, and he was - what? Offering her _promises?_ As if she could believe anything he said! How long was he going to play this game of innocent, lonely friend? When would he stop? Abruptly furious, and beyond rational thought, Ellana surged to her feet.

“Enough games, _Betrayer._ I know who you are! I know the things you have done, and I am not fooled! You cannot be trusted, you proved that when you banished our gods, and I will not do this any longer. Kill me if you wish, I certainly cannot stop you, but otherwise, _leave me alone!”_

The wisp turned an alarming shade of pink and zipped away so fast Ellana could not see where it had gone. Fen’Harel lifted his head off his paws, and Ellana’s ears suddenly caught up with her mouth. She slapped a hand over it, to keep whatever stupidity she was about to spew to herself. Fen’Harel was surely going to kill her now.

He stood to his feet slowly, as if feeling every one of his thousand plus years, and began to walk away.

Fen’Harel was the only god left to her people, he’d finally revealed himself after _centuries_ of absence, and she had just _driven him away._ What was she thinking! “No, wait, please!” She dashed forward, hand outstretched, but the forest faded away, the underbrush evaporated, and the white of his coat was nothing more the glint of light off a bit of crumbled stone. _“Fendhis!”_ she cried, striking it with a fist. Then, “shit, that hurts!”

 

-

 

Ellana was grim the morning after she had banished him from her dreams, and Solas wasn’t sure how to take it. He should have called for Wisdom, not Curiosity. Wisdom would have kept him from pushing so hard. What had possessed him to offer her his protection? What Dalish elf wanted the protection of _Fen’Harel?_ He was such a fool. At least she didn’t appear fearful, just filled with dire purpose. She gathered supplies from the requisition officer, and he remembered her promise the night before to leave offerings at his statues.

She stopped by his tent, and he turned to face her, not even pretending to be absorbed in packing. “I’m saw him again last night. Promised that I would go clean his statues and leave offerings. Do you want to come?”

“Of course, _lethallan._ Whatever you need.” If she had not offered to bring him, he simply would have followed another way. She would not leave him behind.

She nodded, made to turn away, then stopped and faced him fully. “Do you know anything about how do honor him properly? Any tales about him in the fade? I want to do this right.”

“I’m not sure…” he began doubtfully.

“Then don’t come,” Ellana cut him off. “I need committed people, or none at all. I offended him horribly last night, and I have to make up for it - _now.”_

Solas bristled. “I beg your pardon, Inquisitor. I meant no disrespect. The fade speaks of him enjoying raw meat, caught with the petitioner's own hands. Bring the unspiced flesh before his statues, and he will be swayed.”

Ellana sagged, digging the heel of her hand into her eyes, as if to relieve the pressure of a headache. “Creators, I’m sorry Solas. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just really fucked up last night, and I’m not sure I can undo it.”

“Was it really so bad?” he asked, padding forward on silent feet.

“No. Yes. Shit, I don't know.” Her eyes cut to the side, and she chewed her lip as she considered. “He almost begged me to be his friend, did everything he could to be as non-threatening as a massive hart-sized wolf could be. We went hunting, he gave me a weapon, didn’t object when I accidentally pointed it at him, even let me make the kill. Then I goofed and prayed to Anduril, and it went downhill from there. He was _growling_ and his hackles were standing on end and, and...dammit but that is the scariest thing I have ever seen. _Including_ Corypheus and his pet archdemon. Turns out he was just mad because I was asking for death and didn’t even realize it.”

“Asking for death?”

She flushed. “Our hunting prayer, the one we say right before we release our arrows. It’s a plea for death, not gratitude for our hunt like we thought.”

“What were you saying?”

She repeated the phrase to him the same way she had when hunting with him in the fade.

“Oh,” Solas struggled with how to respond. “Yes, well. He wasn’t lying to you about that, at least.”

Ellana groaned and leaned forward, bracing her forehead against his chest. Solas smiled and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He was beginning to like this habit of hers. “He told me how to say it right. At least, I think he did,” she said, voice muffled.

“What would that be?” Solas asked, unable to hide his amusement at her embarrassment.

_“Ar An’nathir Anduril ghilanas enasalin.”_

Solas was silent for a moment, as if translating in his head. Then, “I am grateful to the goddess Anduril for this victorious hunt?”

Ellana scrubbed her face up and down against his chest.

“None of this sounds terrible. What makes you certain you offended him so badly?”

“It was after that.” Ellana lifted her head and took a few steps away, running her hands through her short-cropped hair. “He offered me his protection, promised that he wouldn’t hunt me or my clan. He even acknowledged that I might not trust him. And what do I do, when a god offers to protect me?” she huffed an exasperated sigh. “I called him a liar and betrayer and told him to kill me or get out.” She turned to Solas, eyes filled with confusion. “He left.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Solas pondered that for a moment. “I believe you were right the first time.”

“How so?”

“I believe he is lonely, and is looking for a friend. Acceptance.” This truth that he offered her sat lightly on his tongue, a wisp that might be carried away with the slightest breeze.

“I would like to believe that. But it's hard to. He didn’t deny that he is a Trickster. And it’s hard to dismiss the fact that the gods are all absent, but for him. I don’t know…” she trailed off, then shook her head. “We can talk about this on the way.”

 

-

 

Sera flat-out refused to go back to "that freaky undead birth house" and so was replaced by Cole. The spirit of Compassion was a welcome distraction, and Ellana spent a great part of the journey talking to him, trying to understand him as best as she was able. But she was no Solas to walk freely through the fade, and she was limited in her comprehension.

Each night she called for Fen'Harel, hoping to apologize to him - again - and perhaps appease his wrath. But he never responded, never came near, and her fear was slowly increasing to a fever-pitch. What if he was so offended that he was hunting her clan even now? What if he turned his attention to Skyhold? Or the people in the Crossroads? Or Redcliff, or Dennet's farm, or any of the other people she'd encountered in her journey? She would _die_ if she was the cause of their deaths.

On the morning of the fourth day, only two out from the Plains, Solas came to her, deep circles under her eyes. _"Lethallan,_ please. Cease your activities in the fade. You are exhausting me."

"What?" She cocked her head to the side, truly puzzled.

Looking utterly drained, Solas stole the cup of tea from her hand and threw the whole thing back in one gulp. He gave a full-body shudder, his face wrenching up horribly, before he returned the empty tin to her hand. "Stop calling for him. He will come to you in his time. You cannot command the Dread Wolf. And you are attracting all sorts of unsavory characters."

"What are you talking about, Solas? I've seen no-one. Not even a wisp."

"Yes. And I am working hard at keeping it that way. But Pride is fierce, and you have several vying for your attentions."

Instantly, she understood, and she became contrite. "I'm so sorry, Solas. I didn't realize. Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"Because it wasn't so bad the first night. Slightly more difficult on the second. But last night..." Solas trailed off, his gaze turning inward. "Even if you insulted him, you _must_ have the protection in the fade that he offered you. I arrived late last night, to find you calling him, surrounded by no less than eight pride demons, and you completely unaware."

Solas felt only the slightest twinge of guilt for lying to her. He wasn't as tired as he made out to be. In fact, he was well rested. It was part of his nature to draw strength from the fade. But he simply _could not stand_ another night of her calling "Fen'Harel!" out across the length and breadth of the Beyond. If she was going to scream his name, there were better ways to go about it.

"Of course, I'll stop. I shouldn't be trying to summon a god, anyway."

"That sounds like a damn good idea to me," Blackwall put in, and Ellana flashed him a grin.

"Calling, crying, caged in fear. He hunts, hungers, haunts. Will he kill for her folly?"

Solas put a gentle hand on Cole's shoulder, and the spirit fell silent.

After an awkward moment, Ellana cleared her throat and stood to her feet. "Yes, well. We're almost there. I want to start with cleaning his statues as soon as possible."

"There are more than a dozen, all over the place. You know where you want to begin?" Blackwall asked, rolling his bedroll with practiced ease.

Ellana smiled. "I know exactly where to begin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea with what I'm doing with El'vhen'an. Got some of it from Project Elvhen by FenxShiral. Including the name for the language. The rest of it...I'm making it up as I go along. *shrug* 
> 
> Also, does anyone know how to keep the italics when you do the copy/paste dance? Cuz I'm so tired of going back and adding them in again. I ALWAYS miss some. And, yeah. Switching to 'rich text' doesn't help.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statues are cleaned, tales are told, and Solas has a REALLY bad day.

Blackwall stayed at camp, Cole vanished to...wherever he went...and Solas joined Ellana in approaching the statue. She'd chosen it carefully, the first of many they would clean in the coming days.

"This is the one?" Solas asked, setting the rag and bucket next to the plinth.

"Yes," Ellana answered softly. "This is where he came bursting from stone in my dream."

Solas stood back, studying it with a practiced eye. "It seems to be almost complete. He chose well."

Ellana snorted in amusement. "I'll be sure to tell him that the next time I see him." She swallowed, _"if_ I see him again."

Solas's warm hand on hers brought her head up. "I'm certain that Fen'Harel has kept his promises to you. He protects you in the fade, does he not?"

She nodded and stooped to dip her rag in the bucket of soapy water at their feet. Solas did the same, and the two of them climbed inelegantly onto the base of the statue; logic dictated that they clean from the top to the bottom, which would inevitably involve climbing _on top_ of the statue.

Ellana braced one hand on the wolf's shoulder, and studied the distance to the ears. The statue was even bigger than the Dread Wolf himself; she would never be able to reach unless she stood on the back. She sighed and turned to Solas, where he'd begun with the hindquarters. "You think it's safe?"

Solas grunted. "I think you risk his wrath if you do _not_ climb up there. How else could you do a thorough job?"

Ellana did not respond, and they cleaned for a time in peace, their communications limited to him offering to refresh her rag in the water.

Eventually, she asked, "What _are_ your beliefs on the Creators, Solas?"

"I believe that they existed, but were not gods. Perhaps powerful mages, or spirits, or something we’ve never seen. I believe that there is more to them than the simple virtues and vices assigned to them. Anything more than that, I cannot say."

"But you think it's really the Dread Wolf who haunts my dreams."

"Did the elvhen not enter uthenara?"

Stunned by the thought, Ellana turned to Solas, her mind moving rapidly. "You're saying that you think Fen'Harel is a powerful mage who grew tired of the world and entered the eternal sleep and then...woke up again?"

Ellana's mind whirled. She knew from personal experience in the temple of Dirthamen, and from the 'true' stories Solas would tell, that the legends of her people were little more than fractured fairytales. And while it was tempting to dismiss Solas's words, coming from fade experiences as they did, she could not deny that he had an association with artifacts from Elvhenan, and could speak the language so fluently it put her sparse dialogue to shame. Was it possible that the tales of the Dread Wolf were just as mangled?

"Solas..." she began, unwilling to ask, but still needing to know.

Solas jumped down and went around the side to wet his rag, then stood up and began on the tail of the beast. "Yes, _lethallan?"_ When she did not answer, he looked up to find her face filled with a mix of curiosity and anguish.

"Did-" she croaked, and stopped to whet her lips with her tongue. "Did you find any true stories of Fen'Harel?"

Solas froze. He had not expected her to ask that of him, and certainly not so soon. "I...have heard some. But I do not know if you want to hear them."

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, passing her rag down for him to dunk in the bucket. He did so, and she began to wipe off the statue’s muzzle.

"Because...they paint him in a manner most different than the ones you are used to."

Ellana was silent for a long moment. "You're saying my people are wrong about this, too."

"Inquisitor-"

"No, it's fine. I thought that might be the case." She looked him in the eye, an order, not a request. "Tell me a story of the Dread Wolf, Mystic."

 Caught by her, Solas could only bow his head. _"Ma nuvenin,"_ he whispered. _As you wish._

He refreshed his rag, trying to select just one story to tell her. It had to be perfect. Deciding, he began, "I have seen the man who would one day become the Dread Wolf. The place of his birth is holy ground in the Beyond. Or as close to such as spirits can get. The ones who knew him best come by often to refresh the memory, never allowing it to dissipate. It is a secret place, one Justice and Combat defend from casual wanderers. When I made friends with a spirit of Wisdom, it lead me there, to show me the memories it poured into the space.

"It is a storefront, the parents are merchants. He has a brother, though it is impossible from the scene to tell if he is one of the Creators as well. Magic is in its infancy; though there is much of it in the air, they have not yet learned how to mould it to their wills. When the boy dreams, I can see echoes of his wanderings in the fade. He was a Dream Walker, as I am. Perhaps the first.

"I have watched him make foolish mistakes, he was very lucky. Demons did not exist - pardon me, that is not quite true. Demons have _always_ existed, even as the emotions and concepts that feed them have. But the world had been at peace for a long time - it was too large to wage the sorts of wars that are common now - and most people were content. Thus, he found more helpful spirits than harmful. He trusted easily then, but in those days, such trust was a reward all its own.

"I could not see what happened to him once he and his brother left the store, those memories are either forgotten, or stored in places of the fade I've not gone. But he did return, on occasion. And each time, he seemed more powerful. His fade self pressed firmer into the Beyond, bringing some of the reality of the physical world with him.

"There is one memory I would share with you, that occurs after he comes fully into his powers."

Solas paused in his story looking up at Ellana to see how she was taking it. She seemed enraptured, mouth partially open, cheeks flushed. Her rag was still on the stone, and long since dry. Solas hid his smirk and continued.

"It seems that he was home visiting his family, his brother does not appear in this memory, and though he was care worn and tired at arrival, he quickly shucked his responsibilities for a more light hearted attitude. His mother sent him upstairs to wash the dirt from the road, while he attempted to sneak into the kitchen to steal some of the sweet pastries she was baking. God or no, she had her way, and he went up the stairs empty-handed.

"He is standing in the bathroom when the idea occurs to him. He reaches out and touches the mirror...the only way I can describe it is that he stops looking _at_ the mirror and begins to look _into_ it instead. He strokes it softly with his fingers," Solas allowed his hands to run over the stone as they had over the mirror in this ancient memory of his. "And then, twisting strands of the Beyond around his hand, he pushes his hand into the mirror. The glass ripples like a lake, but does not shatter. Downstairs, his mother screams. He grins, boyish delight, and pulls his hand back out, now clasping a pastry."

Solas fell silent, but Ellana did not speak. Surely he wasn't going to end the story there. After a few moments, she asked, "well? What happened?"

Solas shrugged carelessly with one shoulder, stepping around the statue to get at the forepaws. "The dream ends there. I suspect because it had already shown the significant parts."

Ellana frowned. "What's so important about the Trickster stealing pastries? I mean, it's funny for sure, but significant?"

Solas had hoped she would understand without him explaining, but no matter. She must not have heard of the eluvians. "I believe it important because it is the first time a mirror is used for transport. It is my suspicion that Fen'Harel created the eluvians that the ehlvenan used to travel over long distances." At her blank face, he continued, "the eluvians were mirrors, twice as tall as a man, all connected to each other. Walking through one found you exiting through another, in a new location. Sometimes hundreds of miles away. Their empire was built without roads."

Understanding cleared the creases from her brow. "And this is a true tale of Fen'Harel?"

"As true as any tale born in the fade can be."

Ellana smiled at his reference to her earlier conversation, then stole his rag to clean the underside of the statue's jaw, dropping her dry one on his head.

Solas grumbled without heat, and offered her his hand when she was done. She took it, using his strength to brace against as she hopped down off the statue. "Well! That wasn't so bad."

Solas simply looked at her.

She had the grace to look sheepish. "Thanks for all your help?"

"Indeed."

 The rags went back into the bucket, which they returned to the camp. Blackwall, sharpening his sword, offered to join them, but Ellana just waved him off. "We're going hunting, and we won't go far. Enjoy the rest."

Ellana borrowed a bow and quiver from on of the scouts, while Solas brought nothing but the dagger he kept on his belt.

 

-

 

Ellana was surprised at how much she enjoyed hunting with Solas. Though he had no skill with a bow, his ability to sneak up on small prey was incredible. Often, he would flush larger animals as he dashed after the small rabbits and foxes he prefered. And Ellana had no issue with the easy pickings, downing three deer. She had never hunted so well. At the end, Solas had five foxes and three rabbits, while Ellana was more than content with her count of three. They had to go back to camp to get help bringing it all in.

"This is amazing!" one of the scouts commented, as he carried one of her carcasses with another scout. "I've never seen so much meat! You Dalish are amazing hunters."

Ellana smiled. "Thank you, but Solas was instrumental in this hunt. He herded the deer at me while hunting his own kill. With a knife, no less. I didn't know he could move so fast."

Solas, walking ahead of the group, did not respond. But the backs of his ears did turn a delightful shade of pink.

Ellana laughed, but turned the conversation away before the others could notice. He would not thank her for embarrassing him. "You can have one of the deer for yourselves. A few of the foxes as well. But the rest are to be left to us. I want to clear at least two more statues today, and we'll need the meat."

"Of course, your Worship. The men will appreciate the fresh food."

Ellana and Solas made quick work on the skinning of his kills, and then worked together on hers. He pulled back on the skin while she sliced it away from the flesh with a sharp knife, knowing just how much pressure to put on the fur without risking damage. They started at the shoulder, working their way down, and were done much faster than either of them could have managed alone.

She watched as he cut the meat from the bone in neat strips, laying it carefully on the brown paper they'd set aside. "You've done this before."

"Of course," he said, not pausing in his work. "I must feed myself somehow. And an apostate is not welcome in most towns. But a successful hunter is."

Ellana smiled, shaking her head. "You continue to surprise me."

They finished the butchering in due time, leaving the organs and fur with the scouts, and headed out with many small parcels of wrapped paper.

"Quite the catch, Inquisitor." Blackwall commented, his hart laiden down with its bloody buren. "You should hunt for us more often."

"I may just do that," she responded. Gesturing for the rest of them to remain mounted, Ellana hopped down and laid a bundle of packages at the foot of the statue they had cleaned. Glancing around, she found some embrium growing nearby, and she plucked a few blossoms, twisting them into a rough knot before dropping them on top of  the meat. She stood, hands pressed together in prayer, and bowed her head, mumbling softly. She was done in moments, and back on her hart. "Let's go!" she said with a cheerful grin.

Blackwall joined in the cleaning efforts on the next two statues, saying that honoring the gods was always a good idea, and Solas told no more tales, despite requests from both his companions. Cole reappeared, from time to time. Fetching new water, gathering more embrium, he was being helpful, and happy for it. Ellana drew joy from his simple pleasures.

They made camp out in the planes that night, tucked up under an overhang of rock from one of the many spire formations dotting the landscape.

"Sighs, soft. Singing in the dark. Stars twinkle, tame and bright. It is beautiful here."

"That is is, lad," Blackwall said, laying his bedroll out under the sky.

Solas had first watch.

 

-

 

Sleep came easily that night, cleaning and climbing was more exhausting than she thought it would be, and Ellana slipped quietly into the fade.

Fen'Harel was waiting for her.

Ellana bowed, the great wolf inclined his head. Behind him, real as on the planes, the three statues she had cleaned sat all in a row, the offerings at their bases undisturbed.

 Once sure he had her attention, Fen'Harel padded on silent feet towards the statue on the farthest left - her first offering. He picked up a package gently, not even wrinkling the paper with his sharp teeth, and walked up to her, his fur dulling to chalk as he got close. He laid it gently at her feet, and as he turned away, a fire sprung into being before her, supplies laid at its side perfect for roasting meat. Taking the hint, she unwrapped the package, and began to prepare the deer.

She heard the softest sigh, and glanced up to see him settling on the other side of the fire from her, his massive frame sprawled elegantly, the rest of the packages from the first statue between his paws. She watched as he dipped his head and grasped one tiny thread between his front teeth. He pulled it free, set one paw upon its end, and searched for the other end of the thread. The bow unraveled, and he nosed the paper apart, finally revealing the meat inside.

He was so delicate. Careful. He could grab the offering in his massive jaws, rip it apart, down the whole thing in one bloody gulp. Instead, he would daintily unwrapped each one, take it in his mouth, and swallow. He was so neat, so clean. Nothing savage about him, no ripping or tearing, for all that he was a wolf. Ellana stared at him as he worked his way through the pile, never once damaging the twine or paper. She wondered if he were as fastidious as a man as he was as a wolf. How much of this was an act? How much of it was designed simply to get him to trust her?

She reached out and pulled her meal from the flames, speared it with a knife, and ate her much smaller portion. When they were both done, he got silently to his feet, retrieved a package from the second statue, and repeated the whole pattern.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked him, staring sightlessly into the flames as her food cooked. "I can tell how hard you are trying not to scare me. Part of me is relieved, another part is simply more terrified. Your actions do not match the tales my people tell of you. I don't know what to believe."

He looked at her calmly from across the flames, and she waited for the wisp to return and speak for him.

When none was forthcoming, she began to speak again, voice filled with frustration. As if _this time_ he would give her an answer she could understand.. "What do you want from me? Why have you returned after all this time - and why are you so _different?"_

He did not respond in any way, merely stared at her.

She sighed gustily, retrieving her food. "I can't say that I blame you for not wanting to talk. It didn't exactly end well last time, did it?"

He huffed a laugh.

She stared down at her skewer of meat, plucking listlessly at a string of fat hanging from its underside. "There is a mage in know...a Dream Walker. He...has told me some tales of you."

He moved to his third statue, dropped a parcel of it by her side, then settled down to finish his meal.

"I don't know what to do, my lord." He huffed at the title, but she went on. "I do not want to insult you, but trusting you is difficult. I believe, at least, that you do not wish to harm me. But..." she chewed her lip. "I have made many enemies in the last few months, and will likely make many more. The idea of having your favor is an alluring one. It is said that you are fierce in battle, ruthless against those that challenge you." She peered up at him through her lashes.

He yawned widely, showing off his blood tinged tongue, and teeth longer than her hand. He licked his chops with satisfaction, before turning to stare her in the eyes.

Well. That was rather clear.

"I...will not try to lie to you. I have at least that much sense. It will take time for me to trust you. And, there are questions...tales my people tell..."

His ears pricked, eyes turning grave.

"I can't. Not today."

His muzzle dipped in acknowledgement, and she thought she saw gratitude in the gesture.

That made two of them, then.

"I will clean the rest of your statutes as the week goes, but the large one...on the mountain...might be..." She trailed off because he was growling. Not the aggressive, rage-filled one of before; this one was softer, barely a rumble. Displeasure, not anger. She changed what she had been going to say. "It will take me more time to clean that one. Perhaps a few months. I'll have to get a group together..." She stopped.

Fen'Harel had stood up, stalked over to his third statue, and with one powerful bite of his jaws, took the head off his likeness. His movements towards her were softer, no anger in them, and it gave her the courage to remain seated as he approached her with the statue's head in his teeth. Once again, his coat dulled as he got closer to her, and she wondered if it was an intentional move on his part, or if she somehow diminished him by her proximity. He placed the head delicately on the ground, and nuzzled it closer until it was pressed against her thigh, the eyes peering across her body.

 She frowned. He had accepted her offerings, eaten them with delicate relish. He had ensured that she was fed first, an act of caring. And then, when she spoke of cleaning, he disfigured his own statue, offering her the broken piece. "You don't want me to clean anymore."

He leaned down, warm breath ghosting over the top of her head, and her heart jumped straight to her throat. He loomed over her so large, she didn't even come up to his ribs, seated as she was. He froze as her fear spiked, and then backed away, returning to his side of the fire.

"I'm sorry," she said with relief. "Thank you."

He whuffed politely.

 

-

 

Blackwall's eyes were wide when he woke her for the last watch of the night. "What is this, Inquisitor?" he whispered frantically.

Beside her, where she lay curled in her bedroll, a package that they had left at a statue, and the head from it. Slight scratches and pockmarks were embedded in its cheeks and ears, left from enormous teeth. She reached out and ran a hand along its head, the stone cool to her touch. "It's a sign of favor, I think."

"Your god is a strange one," Blackwall asserted softly.

"Yes, he is." Ellana traced a hand delicately up the wolf's carved ear.

In his bedroll, features hidden by the dying flames of their fire, Solas smiled.

 

-

 

Ellana had originally set aside the greater part of a week to clean statues. But since that was no longer necessary (the head remained, and she had called for the scouts to haul it back to Skyhold. The package of meat served to augment their breakfast.), she decided that they might as well head towards the southern ramparts and clear it from the undead. As they traveled along the road, she couldn't help but glance at the statue that had started the whole thing, exploding into Fen'Harel in her dream. She noted that all the meat was gone, and its head was intact. She would bet good money that the one he had disfigured was the one they had cleaned last.

He visited her a few more times, their interactions limited to him revealing himself, receiving her greetings, and then fading away again. It was almost as if he did not want her to forget him. _What would happen,_ she wondered, _if a god was truly forgotten? Or, if the stories of them were so twisted as to not reflect them at all? How powerful would they be, without the devotion of the people?_

Her dreams were peaceful, free of demons, as promised by the Dread Wolf, and Solas expressed gratitude that he no longer had to police her dreams. She chastised him for doing so in the first place, her trips through the fade were not his responsibility, but he only looked at her blankly.

"Perhaps not," he allowed, "but I did it anyway."

There wasn't much she could say to that, but, "thank you."

They finished their work in the southern ramparts, and Ellana blew the horn to summon the soldiers with relish. They camped the night on one of the elevated platforms. The stench of dead bodies was horrible, but safer than being out along the roads, where demons still wandered on occasion.

She woke to find Solas boiling tea over a fire. Not an utterly unusual scene, he frequently made the morning brew for the rest of the group, even if he never partook himself. He had many strange quirks like that. What was unusual was the fact that the first pour went into his own cup, thrown back as if it was hard liquor.

"Rough night?" she asked, pouring herself a cup and sipping it much more slowly. It was hot enough to skald. How had he downed it like that?

"Indeed. I am trying to shake the dreams from my mind." He paused. "Inquisitor-" she made a disgruntled sound in the back of her throat, and he changed his words, "Ellana. I have a favor to ask."

He looked distressed, his brows creased, restless energy bubbling up from inside. Something had gone wrong in the night. "Talk to me," she demanded.

"I would not normally bother you with this. But we are so close already, less than a day's travel..." He closed his mouth, took a deep breath. "A friend of mine - my oldest - has been captured. I heard the cries for help last night in the fade. It is being held against its will, it begged me for assistance-" Ellana placed a comforting hand over his, and his words stuttered to a stop. "I apologize. I am not used to asking for assistance."

"We will help her, immediately." She glanced up at Cole, who nodded once and vanished, to gather Blackwall and their things, no doubt. She turned back to Solas. "Is it Wisdom? The spirit you told me of before?"

 "I-yes. It has been with me for years. Guiding me in my younger days, offering companionship more recently. I cannot abandon it." He turned angry, "there was no need to bind it! It would be perfectly happy discussing philosophy, but it is no spirit of combat to fight."

Blackwall approached, the reigns of two harts in each hand. Cole followed with the third. Ellana's hart wore no bit or bridle, and answered only to her whistle.

"Let's go," she said, securing her staff to the back of the saddle and swinging up onto its back. "Solas's friend is in danger."

They took off at a gallop, Solas in the lead, thundering past demons and bandits that normally would have tasted their blades. But not today.

They dismounted as they got closer, Solas's eyes trained on the ground, studying the bodies they passed. The first set was that of two mages, their bodies pierced with arrows. Solas only urged them on. The second set had him whispering, "no, no, no, no!" frantically to himself.

Studying the marks left by a pride demon, Ellana couldn't help but agree with his assessment. How easy it would be to twist Wisdom into Pride.

A little farther down, they came across a small group of mages, a demon of pride roaring behind a barrier behind them.

"Creators," Ellana breathed. Even from this distance, she could see that it was in pain.

A cluster of five mages stood at a distance from the demon, huddled together in fear. One of them turned at their approach, fear filled eyes brightening with hope as he took in their appearance. "You aren't bandits? Thank the Maker!"

"You kidnapped my friend!" Solas growled at them, fury evident in every line of his body.

"Your - what? That's a demon. Pride," the man said, flustered at the accusation.

"Demons are just spirits twisted from their purpose, you summoned it, _bound_ it," Solas's finger extended towards the man, and for a second, Ellana was sure he would smite them then and there. "It wasn't a demon until you ordered it to fight - to kill!"

The man's eyes went wide, but he blundered on, "I realize it what it might look like to the uninitiated. But I assure you, that we only did what we had to. The road is not safe for travel, and we needed protection. We summoned the demon - "

"Shut. Up."

The man took two steps back at the tone of Solas' voice. But he rallied quickly. "You can't speak to me that way! I am the foremost demon expert from Kirkwall's circle -"

"Do yourself a favor and stop talking," Ellana cut in, utterly unconcerned with this man's bluster. "I assure you, he," she gestured at Solas, who was practically vibrating with bloodlust, "knows more about the spirits and the fade than you _ever_ will. Now get out of our way."

They brushed past the group and approached the bound demon, roaring in agony.

"What can we do?" Ellana asked Solas.

"Break the binding," he said in a rush, his eyes fixed in horror on the thing his friend had become. "No binding, no order to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon."

He sounded like he was trying to convince her, but there was no need. "Right." She turned to Cole and Blackwall, both of whom had remained blessedly silent through the whole ordeal. "Take down the standing stones surrounding the demon. _Do not_ attack it. Solas will keep you covered with barriers, your only job is to get it free."

The two men nodded and drew their weapons, braced for a different kind of fight.

Ellana drew her staff, twirling it in her hands once before slamming it in the ground, turning to face the mages, standing to the side with wide eyes. "Go," she groused, eyes fixed on the men who had acted so cruelly. "I will keep them back."

The demon roared, Blackwall roared back and charged forward, leading with his shield straight into the closest pillar of stones. Cole kicked at the stones at the top, breaking them apart, ripping them free of the enchantment that kept them standing. Solas's barrier went up just in time to cause the demon's claws to bounce off its edges, staggering Blackwall, but causing no harm.

 As if they hadn't believed that they would really go through with it, the mages let out a cry of dismay and surged forward as one, the leader screaming, "no! The binding is the only thing keeping it contained! It will kill us all if you free it!"

Ellana reached inside for her rage, channeling it into a wall of fire between the mages, and where Blackwall and Cole were working so hard to undo their binding. It was an effort not to place it close enough to set their robes aflame. They turned as one to face her.

"Pray," she told them without pity. "Pray to your Maker that they succeed. That Pride returns to Wisdom once more. Because, should she die, I cannot promise you your lives."

The true import of their actions finally seemed to sink in, and they backed away warily, no longer trying to approach, even as Ellana's wall of fire flared and died completely. She wanted to turn away, watch what was happening, try to gauge if they were being successful, but she had given herself the task of watching _them,_ instead. And she would do her duty.

The demon roared once more, with what sounded like relief, the mages before her became incredulous, and Ellana turned to find the massive armored form of Pride evaporating to reveal the dainty feminine form of Wisdom underneath. Unable to help herself, Ellana floated forward, as Solas dashed to Wisdom's side, falling to his knees before her crumpled form.

 _"Thank you,"_ Ellana heard Wisdom say in El’vhen’an, understanding granted by Solas’s lessons. She wondered fleetingly if Wisdom was where Solas had learned the language.

 _"I am so sorry,"_ Solas responded, and Ellana heard the heartbreak in his voice. _"I could not save you."_

 _"You_ did _save me,"_ the spirit responded, _"I am myself again."_

 _"Do not leave me alone again, do no leave,"_ Solas begged, his hands, glowing the green of the Beyond, touched Wisdom gently, and where he did, her color flared brighter for a moment before fading away.

 _"I must. I have lost too much of myself, old friend,"_ Wisdom's eyes closed in exhaustion. _"Now you must endure."_

A choked cry of denial emerged raw from Solas's throat, and Ellana turned away, tears stinging her eyes. This moment was too private to be observed. She led Cole and Blackwall away, back towards the hovering mages. Let Solas say goodbye to his friend in peace. She turned to watch, arms wrapped around herself in a semblance of a hug, and as Blackwall wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders, tears began to stream down her cheeks. Their conversation continued for a moment longer, Solas's broken voice audible, even if his words were not. Then he reached out, palms up, and curled his fingers in Wisdom's essence, unraveling her with a gesture.

Ellana cried out in dismay and dashed forward, not sure what she could do, but equally sure that she had to do _something,_ stop him from-

But Wisdom sighed in gratitude, and faded away.

Ellana skidded to a halt just out of arm's reach, and stared down at Solas's hunched form. He had never seemed broken to her, not even in the aftermath of Haven's destruction, when despair had been laced into the very air. But he was shattered now. "Solas..." what could she possibly say?

"Wisdome is gone," he told her, voice dead. "And now I must endure."

"Is there anything..."

"No. But, I thank you for trying."

Crunch of gravel, and they turned to find the leader of the mages approaching. "Thank you so much! We couldn't really control it, I'm sure it would have escaped us eventually-"

"You!" If Ellana had thought Solas angry before, it was nothing like the rage that overcame him now. He literally flickered with small flames, shimmering in the air around him. "You killed it!"

"It was a demon!" the man said, backing away.

"It was a _spirit._ Of Wisdom! It had never harmed another, until it fell into your claws." Solas stepped forward, a predator stalking his prey.

Ellana folded her arms and watched with cold eyes. She had warned them, before. Now, Solas would do with them what he would.

"We didn't know - the book said it would help!" the man objected, backpedalling frantically towards his compatriots.

 "You were not worthy of it," Solas growled, and the flames in his aura roared to full strength. It was mercifully brief, but they died in agony.

When he turned back to Ellana, all emotion seemed to have drained from his body. "I - am sorry," he swallowed. "You have my gratitude."

"I...heard what she said," Ellana began hesitantly. "Just a little. She was right. You did save her."

"...perhaps." He stared at Ellana with unfathomable eyes. "I - cannot stay. I am sorry, but I need time to myself. I will meet you back at Skyhold."

He turned and strode away, leaving both his staff and pack on the ground where he had abandoned them where Wisdom had fallen. And it suddenly occurred to Ellana that he had taken care of the mages with nothing but the power of his will.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas returns, Ellana and Fen'Harel come to an understanding, and the Great Wolf is sneaky.

Ellana curled up in her bedroll that night, the tips of her fingers laying on the grip of Solas's staff. He would come back for it, surely? He would not leave now? Though...he had only promised to stay until the breach was closed. Perhaps she had been living on borrowed time with him. It took her several hours to slip into a troubled sleep.

She wandered for a while, unwilling to dream for fear of the things her subconscious might subject her to. There were spirits and beings around her. But as promised, no demons approached. Though there was something...

A howl went up, echoing through the fade, and Ellana shivered. She'd never heard it before, but knew without a doubt who it was. Fen'Harel. It tapered off, only to begin again, the mournful sound sending shivers down her spine. And Ellana suddenly remembered what Solas had said about his friend Wisdom. She had been the one to show him the Dread Wolf's birth, she must have been friends with the god as well. Somehow, the Wolf knew that she was dead.

Crying again, eyes blurred beyond use, Ellana stumbled towards the sound, her thoughts filled with Solas. He was alone, wherever he was, grieving without someone to turn to. If she couldn't be there for him, she could at least be there for Fen'Harel, who mourned the same spirit.

"Fen’Harel!" she cried as she got closer, but her voice was drowned out by his howling, each note ripping into her heart. "Fen'Harel!" She fell, climbed to her feet, wiped away tears that refused to stop. "Fen'Harel!"

Afterwards, she would claim to have been caught up in the moment, sure that she was somehow feeling his grief as her own.

She found him, sitting in the middle of a quiet glen, brook bubbling quietly on one side. It was fading at the edges. "Fen'Harel," she whispered, and flung herself at him where he sat, head tilted back, despair in every sound coming from his throat. His brilliant coat was colder than ice, each hair a spear of frost; it felt like grabbing onto a blizzard.

His song cut off, and he made to pull away, startled. But she only held him tighter, weeping into his fur, tears frozen on her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" she sobbed into his shoulder.

He whimpered and warmed in her arms, becoming the banked embers of a fire, his coat almost brown from the heat. He twisted in her grasp, breaking free from her hold.

She sat back on her knees, tried to stem the tide of tears. "I-"

He nuzzled her hands and arms frantically, his tongue coming out to swipe against where he had hurt her with his frost. Healing energy pulsed into her, washing the pain away. She should be frightened of him, but could not drudge up the emotion. Not when she now understood why his coat changed colors. Not when she knew how much he was hurting - from her pain, from the death of his friend. She sat, allowing him to heal her, and felt that she finally understood.

"I'm sorry. I was there when Wisdom - " she wrapped her arms around him again, and he leaned into her. "We tried to save her. My mage friend and I, with two of our comrades. We tried to save her. She had been bound by some mages, who were frightened of bandits. They turned her into a demon of pride. We broke the binding, but it was too late..."

He whined against her, somehow expressing grief and comfort at once.

"I know she was your friend. I'm so sorry this happened. _Ir abelas,_ Fen'Harel. My heart grieves with yours."

He rumbled and grabbed the cloth of her tunic gently between his teeth. He laid down, pulling her with him, and curled up around her. His head lay in her lap, his tail a blanket over her legs. She stroked her hands along his head and ears, his skull so large that her hand barely spanned the gap. His fur was surprisingly soft, and his eyes closed as she wept silently, crying tears he could not shed for the friend that she had never known.

 

-

 

Solas avoided Ellana after that night, as a man by refusing to return to Skyhold, and as the wolf by leaving her alone.

His plan was working well. Far too well, if he were honest with himself. He meant to show her his true self as Fen'Harel, and to bind her to his side as Solas. But he found himself bound to _her,_ as time moved on. He loved her, he already knew that. But she stole a little bit more of his heart with every interaction. Soon, she would hold all of it in her hands.

He never expected her to seek him out in the fade, to understand and offer comfort to the Dread Wolf. But there was no hesitation in her touch, and only grief in her voice. She had soothed him, made him feel less alone, all the while whispering apologies for not being fast enough to save Wisdom. But he had been there, and knew that they had done all they could. Wisdom was lost from the moment it had been forced to kill.

He felt such overwhelming gratitude towards her, that she cared so much, that she put aside her fear to approach him with compassion. He was not supposed to love her this much. It would make it so much harder, should duty require him to drastic lengths, if she took the revelation of his identity poorly. He would do his best to ensure that she did not.

 

-

 

He returned to Skyhold with no fanfare, simply greeting the guards and walking through the entryway as if returning from a walk. Nevermind that it had been almost a month. He fully intended to slip back into his room, with all but the Nightingale unaware. It was only bad luck that Ellana was coming down the steps as he entered. But, upon seeing how her face lit up when she caught sight of him, he amended the thought. Perhaps it was good luck after all.

"Solas," she said, her voice warm with relief. "You came back. I wasn't sure that you would."

"Neither was I, for a time. But I could hardly abandon you now."

She stood closer to him than was prudent, but still within the bounds of propriety, if one were to say that they were sharing secrets. "I have something of yours, if you'll come with me." The tips of her fingers lightly brushed his arm; they were warm as they touched his skin through the cloth.

"Of course," he choked down his next words. _Ma vhenan._ My heart. It was involuntary, a sign of how deeply she had crawled into him, how securely she held his affection. His regard for her had not waned in his absence.

She lead him back up the stairs and into the main hall, gracing Varric with a casual wave as they passed through.

"Glad to see you back, Chuckles," Varric said with a nod.

"And you as well, Master Tethras."

Ellana lead them to the end, and turned left, stepping through the door that lead to her personal quarters, purposefully leaving the door ajar in invitation to anyone to come up. She lead him to the small storage area that held the ladder leading to her internal balcony. She stepped inside, returning a moment later with his staff.

He took it from her in surprise, he had forgotten its existence in his grief. Many thousands of years spent practicing magic without one left him inclined to do without, though it was certainly the wise way to go about it in this new world. "Thank you, _lethallan._ I did not expect to see this again."

She smiled softly, in keen remembrance of his grief. "It's a good staff."

He stared at her, lost in all the little examples of her grace. The way she made the time to speak to everyone in the hold, how she ensured small wants and needs were cared for, same as the large. The way she offered mercy when she could, and a clean death where she could not. Her decisions were not always popular, certainly not with him, but they were always considered, wise. Was it any wonder that he called her 'kinsman'? If only he could share with her what he really meant when the words passed his lips. She may have the shortened life of a _shemlin,_ but her spirit was straight from Elvhenan.

"Solas," she stepped close to him, placed her hand on his staff so she could grip it; close to him, but not touching. "You didn't have to leave."

"...yes. You are right. I apologize. I am simply unused to having the support of others." He looked down at her, a slight smile on his face. "I will work on it."

She sighed and bowed her head, and he remembered her tendency to brace her forehead against his chest. But she was not touching him now, for all that she stood so close. He had left her for a month, without word. Of course she was cautious.

He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders, encouraging her to close the last small distance to lean against him. She did one better. Stepping into his embrace, she let go of his staff and wrapped her arms around his waist, nuzzling into him. She sighed happily, and Solas could not stop himself from dropping a kiss onto the top of her head.

"I am sorry I worried you," he whispered.

 

-

 

If there was one good thing that came from Wisdom’s death - and there was only one good thing that had come from it - it was that Ellana had finally lost her fear of the Dread Wolf. She accepted his presence in her dreams now, simply greeting him and moving on.

Sometimes he paced behind her, following in her wake. Sometimes he shaped the fade, leading her through the ghosts of temples and palaces. Occasionally, he would reflect the waking world, leading her to hidden caches with treasures of Elvhenan. Rarely, he never visited her at all, going about whatever business a he had. But never again did he attempt to speak.

“Where is this?” Ellana wondered, as Fen’Harel lead her down a road.

They approached a crossroad, and though the signs were in El’vhen’an, Ellana found to her pleasure that she could read them.

“Temple of Dirthamen and Halam’shiral,” she said. “Are you doing this because you know I’ve been both places?”

Fen’Harel sat directly between the two signs that pointed in different directions, waiting for her to choose.

She paused, looking down the path that lead to Halam’shiral with longing. But...no. She turned to face the temple of Dirthamen. Halam’shiral had been occupied by humans for too long. Nothing was left except for the base architecture. While the temple of Dirthamen had been virtually untouched when they’d been there. What secrets of Dirthamen’s might Fen’Harel be able to bestow?

He gave a rough bark and lead the way, tail jaunty and high as snow flurries danced in his wake. She laughed, swiping her hand through one of the larger ones, disrupting its pattern. He looked over his shoulder at her, tongue lolling in amusement. He huffed, and more snow appeared, light and warm on her skin, but crystaline.

“This is _amazing,”_ she said with wonder. “I had no idea the fade could produce such beautiful things. No wonder So-er. My Dreamer friend spends so much time here.” She peeked at Fen’Harel. Solas was the only secret she kept from him. She never spoke his name to the Dread Wolf.

It never seemed to concern him, and he continued to trot ahead of her at a steady pace.

They reached the entrance to Dirthamen’s temple, and Ellana was surprised to discover that it was, even now, little more than a hole in the rock wall. Fen’Harel moved to stand to the side, allowing her to enter first. She stood outside the entrance, studying it.

“I’m a little disappointed. I thought the temple would be much more grand at its height.”

The wolf huffed, but moved inside, allowing her to stay or go as she wished. She followed, of course, and if the exterior left something to be desired, the interior more than made up for it. Brilliant blue sconces of veilfire lined the walls at regular intervals, free-standing candelabra with true fire illuminated the corners. Both scrolls and books, there didn’t seem to be a preference, lined enormous bookshelves along the entranceway and, at the end of the stairs, Fen’Harel lay in the place of where his statue was in the original temple.

She snickered as she approached him, noticing that as always, his coat dulled and the snow fell away as she got close. “Now, I happen to know for a fact that there is a statue here,” she chided him mildly. “I don’t think this is an accurate reconstruction, do you?”

He yawned, showing her an impressive set of teeth, then pricked his ears, as if to say, _I do not care. The original is the best. Wouldn’t you agree?_

She chuckled, patting him on the flank as she passed. “Yes, I suppose you are prettier than the statue, anyway.”

He padded after her as she explored, only the click of his nails on the tile giving his presence away. He was remarkably silent for so large a creature.

“I have to ask, Fen’Harel,” she said as she walked, one hand trailing along the wall. “I’ve only ever seen you as a wolf. Can you become a man? One of the elvhen?”

She looked at him and he stared at her, considering, before nodding his head once, sharply.

“Hmm. What about uthenara? Are coming to me from the deep sleep?”

Once again, he took his time before he answered her. A slow shake of the head.

“No?” she stopped in surprise. “You are awake? Physically, in this world?”

He stopped as well, sitting and looking at her with careful eyes. A nod.

“Wow.” She turned away, moving towards one of the intricate tapestries hanging from the wall. Ostensibly to study it, but she didn’t see a thing as she considered what he’d just revealed. “Fen’Harel walks the earth again.” She looked over her shoulder to see him looking at her with great concern. She smiled impishly. “We have a saying, you know. ‘May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.’”

He seemed to understand. He stood, prowled closer, and Ellana surprised herself by feeling no fear. He lifted his nose to her face, his coat almost brown, and sniffed her for several long seconds. Then he lowered his head, took a few steps away, and sneezed several times.

She blinked. “Well, that’s your opinion.”

One section of his lip caught on the edge of a canine, lifting its edge and giving the impression that he was giving her a lopsided grin.

She huffed. “When was the last time _you_ had a bath?”

He danced backwards playfully, his tail wagging in the air.

“I don’t know what that means.”

He did the strangest move. Almost a skip, if performed with four legs, he bounced from side to side towards her until he was right up on her again. His tongue came out and swiped along the side of her face, and before she could do more than squeal, he bounded backwards, upper body lowered to the ground, tail wagging mightily.

“If I’m in the fade, why is this so _slimy?”_ Ellana objected, trying to wipe her face dry with her tunic and only managing to smear it around.

The sound coming from his throat could only be laughter.

“Dread Wolf my ass. More like Dread Puppy,” Ellana groused, finally snatching up a piece of discarded cloth and wiping herself clean. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, worried that she’d gone too far with that last comment.

But he only smiled at her.

She threw the cloth with remarkable aim, and it hit him directly in the face. He shook it off with a huff, but she was smiling. He came up to her, nosed her hand until he could flip it up and onto his back. She tangled her fingers in his fur, and allowed him to lead her through the temple.

It had been months since she’d been back here, and she struggled to remember the path they had taken, trying to overlay the clear hallways she saw now with the overgrown ones she’d traveled. In one of the rooms that would eventually come to hold one of the freakish body parts, Fen’Harel pushed one of the tapestries to the side and stared at the stone wall. She felt...something, a swirl of magic from him. A click, the sound of stone grinding, and a previously unseen crack appeared in the wall, widening as the door slid to the side.

“A secret passage!” Ellana cried with joy. “It _is_ the temple of Dirthamen. I shouldn’t be surprised.” She turned to Fen’Harel. “Is this still there? In the physical world, I mean.”

He nodded.

“Oh, this is _wonderful._ I wonder what we’ll find? _Thank you,_ Fen’Harel.” She gave him a hug, and the sound he made was smug.

She let go, turned to look at him. “I...I want to apologize. For how I acted when we first met. I-”

He barked sharply, cutting her off.

When he did nothing more, she tried again. “I didn’t trust you-”

His growl was frankly magnificent. And though he had earned her trust, there was still a small kindling of fear inside her when his lips curled up into a snarl.

She sighed. “Yes. All right. No more apologies from me.”

The tick-tock of his tail was almost hopeful.

“Shall we go in?” She asked, and he seemed to shrug. Ellana frowned and turned to look into the passage. “It’s very dark…can you illuminate it for me?” She looked at him for his response.

He nodded, shook his head, nodded again.

She stared at him blankly.

He huffed, and a blank hallway appeared, leading to an equally empty room beyond. Ellana stepped inside, and turned around in confusion.

“There’s nothing here?” She looked around carefully. Perhaps there was another secret passage beyond this one?

He moan-grunted a complex sound that, when paired with some peculiar sensations from the fade, seemed to convey...puzzlement?

“You...don’t know what’s inside?” Ellana guessed.

Fen’Harel gave a happy bark.

Ellana laughed. “We are getting rather good at this, aren’t we? All right. I’ll send some people to clear out the temple some, and come back later. Teach me to open the door?”

He lead her back out of the small room, and did just that.

 

-

 

“What does your master make of your progress?” Fen’Harel asked idly while watching Feynriel craft baubles out of air.

“He is impressed, but doesn’t believe me when I tell him who is training me in the fade.” Feynriel pulled more fade-stuff together, moulding it into a ball that he then tossed into the air.

“Does he think you deluded? Or just too kind to correct a spirit’s claim?”

Feynriel laughed, and his concentration wavered enough that all the objects he had created vanished. “Damn!” He turned to Fen’Harel, “I’m not sure he knows what to believe. But he can’t deny that I’m doing far better under your tutelage than I ever did under his.” He shrugged, “he still teaches me magic, but only the types of things that all mages can master. Elements, barriers, that sort of thing. He brags about me to his colleagues, I know, but dodges any question as to how I’ve learned these things.”

“At least he does not lie,” Fen’Harel allowed.

“Would it bother you if he did?” Feynriel asked in curiosity. He had no doubts as to Fen’Harel’s identity, or his sincerity in teaching Feynriel how to Dream Walk. But his claims about the Fall of Arlathan had never been touched beyond that initial meeting. Several times he had wanted to bring the topic up, but it wasn’t something that could be worked into easy conversation. _So, legend says that you tricked all the gods and banished them from this realm, then spent the intervening centuries giggling to yourself in glee. Care to expand?_

Fen’Harel cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. Feynriel found it very wolfish. “Only because of what it would mean for you. Your standing in the other magesters’ eyes increases because of his silence.” He held his hands out, palm up, as if balancing them on a scale. He raised his left hand. “Because you are clever enough to figure it out on your own,” he lowered his left, and raised his right. “Because you have attracted a powerful enough spirit that is willing to share its knowledge with you.” He returned both hands to his lap and smirked.

Feynriel rolled his eyes and went back to creating baubles. “Perhaps I _should_ tell them who is teaching me. That would light a fire under them.”

Fen’Harel was silent for so long, that Feynriel turned to look, there was a very real possibility that he would have disappeared again. But no, he was simply gazing at Feynriel thoughtfully.

“That would...not be wise, Feynriel. I have enemies among the magesters. A group that calls themselves the Venatori. They might not know of me, but their leader certainly does. I have been in conflict with _him_ for quite some time. I fear that, should they hear I am teaching you, they might attempt to get to me through you. You must be cautious about who you speak of me to.” He paused. “I should have spoken of this to you sooner. But until recently, I had thought the Venatori extinguished. I found out only today that there is still a cell in Minrathous, and it is growing in strength again.”

Feynriel stopped and turned to the Wolf. “That’s where I am. Minrathous.”

Fen’Harel froze for one long moment. Then he began to speak, his voice low and urgent. “Be very careful, Feynriel. The Venatori are not to be trifled with. They serve one known as the Elder God. It is he who is my enemy - and he who caused the breach. Would that you were not so far away, and I in possession of others who need me,” Fen’Harel lamented. “I would remove you from their grasp. But I haven’t the strength I once possessed, and I am far, far from your physical location. But, _know this,_ Feynriel.” Fen’Harel stepped up, grasped the boy by his shoulders. “If they find you, if you are in danger, call for me through the fade and _I will come._ Do it swiftly, for it will take some time to traverse the distance.”

Feynriel nodded weakly in the face of such a forceful proclamation. Fen’Harel released Feynriel’s shoulders, gesturing for him to continue. Feynriel swallowed, nodded again, and began to focus. But something Fen’Harel had said struck him as odd, and he turned back.

“What do you mean, ‘there are those that need you’?”

“Ah. I walk the waking world, Feynriel. And interact with others. I have joined a group, aiding them as I am able, and they have come to rely upon me. I cannot in good conscience abandon them, if you are in no immediate danger.”

Sensing that this was as close as he was going to get, Feynriel pounced on the opportunity. “So you intend to reveal yourself to them?”

“It has always been the goal,” Fen’Harel said reluctantly. “Approaching the Dalish was one of the first things I did, upon awakening. I did not know then the stories that had been told of me. How the elves had changed, and my image with them. They fear me too much to approach them as myself.”

“How will you overcome their fear?” Feynriel wondered aloud, not expecting a response.

“Through you, I hope. And one other.”

Feynriel froze, eyes blown wide. “You want me to….serve you?” he squeaked.

Fen’Harel frowned. “Not as you believe. I told you; I am no god. I simply hope that, should the time come for me to reveal myself to the People, you would be willing to speak to my trustworthiness. You will be able to testify that I have never harmed you. That I have, in fact, helped you master a power that few others possess. That I have neither hunted, nor coerced you. Perhaps then, they will be willing to judge me as I am, rather than by the tales that had been twisted through the ages.”

“I don’t know. I’ve spent months interacting with you, but I still don’t know you that well. I trust you won’t hurt me, I’ve seen the Truth of your words in the fade. But you still keep so much of yourself hidden. And I’ve seen no evidence of the wolf.”

Fen’Harel hung his head, eyes closed in frustration. “Your trust is hard-won indeed.” He looked up at Feynriel, gauging. “You wish to see the wolf? Very well.”

The Trickster shimmered, and where there had been a man, instead there stood a wolf. Massive in size, it could look Feynriel directly in the eyes, and did so with the same unnerving intensity of the man. Its coat was purest white, and as it shook itself, snow fell from the ends of each hair, coating the ground in a light dusting. Feynriel stumble backwards, and the Dread Wolf made a show of sitting down and wrapping its tail around its paws elegantly, ears cocked forward, jaw firmly shut.

“Dread Wolf,” Feynriel breathed, and when it didn’t move, crept closer a half step. “You’ve been here all along? Hidden inside _him?”_

The ice blue eyes lit up, and the tongue lolled out in silent laugher.

Feynriel reached out with one unsteady hand, and the wolf drew itself up, the mouth once again closed, eyes wary. “May I?” he breathed, unwilling to impose, but desiring nonetheless.

He could see the wolf considering the same way the man did, and eventually the great head tilted slightly, the top and ears canted towards him in invitation. His coat dulled to chalk.

Feynriel gulped. The eyes were still fixed on him, and he would have to reach past the muzzle to reach the ears. But he had asked and been granted permission - he couldn’t back out now. He moved his hand forward, sliding past the mouth to settle delicately on the flat top of its head. Feynriel’s fear diminished as nothing horrible happened, and he gave the nearest ear a good scratch. “I don’t see how you aren’t a god,” he told the wolf, somehow sure that the man could hear as well. “Who else _but_ a god would be able to do these things? You manipulate the fade as if it was your creation, you walk boldly through its breast while both asleep and awake. The demons do not bother you, and indeed seem diminished by your very presence. You change your shape with a thought…” Feynriel removed his hand and looked into solemn eyes. “What _are_ you?”

The wolf stood, and Feynriel backed up a few steps. The same twisting sensation, and Fen’Harel stood before him again.

“I am a man, Feynriel. Just a man. One blessed with more power than most, but stupid and fallible as the next. I know these things, because I come from an era where _all_ who were like us knew these things. And you could do all I do, if you had my experience. You are not a wolf, but a bird. But that does not mean that you could not fly across the fade just as easily as I run.”

“I’m...a bird? How do you know?” Feynriel grasped just one thing out of Fen’Harel’s incredible speech.

Fen’Harel tapped the side of his nose with one finger. “It is my nature to know.” The air above them shifted from fade green, to a cloudless sky blue. “Would you like to learn to fly?”

 

-

 

Ellana came into the rotunda minus her usual cheer.

“Something the matter?” Solas asked her, coming around the table to greet her.

“Kinda-sorta not-really?” the Inquisitor said. When Solas just blinked at her, she continued. “I’ve been trying to come up with something nice to do for Vivienne - since she’s really going out of her way working with Leliana to find a tract of land for our new country. I found out today that some magical tomes that had gone missing from the circle have recently turned up. She’s asked to go with me when I track them down.

“Ah. I understand.” Solas said. “Three mages is quite a lot, isn’t it? Do not concern yourself with me. I will see you when you return.”

She hesitated, chewing her lip.

"Something else?"

"It may be a month or so before we get back. Most of the books are places the inquisition has hold of, the Hinterlands and such. But the last place is new: the Emerald Graves."

"Ah."

She was venturing to a new place for the first time without him. That would not do. She would encounter rifts, and then attempt to seal them. Solas had no doubt that she was fully capable of doing so without him, but he needed to be physically present when she did so if he had wanted to absorb the energy from them. He would simply need to tag along...discreetly.

He looked at her, caught glimpse of something in her eyes. He’d been walking a dangerous line, these last few months. Drawing her to his side with gentle flirtations in quiet moments, but remaining separate from her most other times. He’d yet to give her a firm answer as to their relationship, and as such he kept his advances to a minimum. But there were times, when she looked at him with that particular glint, when the hunger burned low in his belly...then he would give in and kiss her.

"You have something you desire?" his voice dropped low, one hand creeping out to hover at her side. Not touching, but promising to.

"Many things," she tilted her head up, offering.

His head dipped, but again he refrained from touching her. It was a delicious game they were playing; teasing, but not tasting. "I offer you whatever you wish," he breathed against her lips.

"A kiss..." she was so close he could taste the mint upon her breath.

His hands snapped out, her hands moved up, and they met in the middle, mouths moving in concert. It was short, but fierce. A passionate goodbye. He slid his hands up her spine, and she shivered at the contact, gripping his shoulders and neck tightly in response. She sighed against him, and he gentled the contact, lifting his head and stepping just far enough away that she would be held only loosely in his arms.

He rested his forehead against hers. "Goodbye," he told her, his overwhelming love for her coloring his tone.

She kissed him sweetly, and walked away.

 

 

-

 

He stayed in Skyhold for the first part of her travels, keeping a lazy eye on her through the fade, and ensuring that he was seen frequently by the Nightingale. It was in the third week of her absence, that he finally went to go speak to the spymaster.

He mounted the steps to the rookery with ease, his memories of this place not so far removed from how it was used today. Each room was built for certain tasks, and the Inquisition made use of the specialties.

"Solas," the spymaster greeted him warily.

"I would speak to you, if you have a moment." Solas folded his hands behind his back and waited, prepared to stand there all day, should he need to.

She eyed him, correctly interpreted his bearing, and waved off an agent who was approaching them. "Speak, then."

"I shall be leaving shortly. The Inquisition has no need of me for the moment, and I have heard of an item of interest in the nearby forest I wish to retrieve."

The spymaster's eyes narrowed. "And you are telling me this, why?"

"A courtesy. Nothing more." He certainly was not asking permission.

"When will you return?"

"I do not know. Before the Inquisitor, certainly."

"I understand," she said dismissing him.

He gave her a short bow, not even trying to hide his smirk. He knew she would send agents to follow him. He also knew that they would fail.

He walked out with just his staff and a pack on his back. No mount to carry him into the mountains. He could not take one where he intended to go, even the hardiest mount would not survive a trip into the fade. And to have it return without him would only stir up mischief he had no wish to handle.

He traveled for the better part of the day, simply to get well away from Skyhold and into the brush. Then, between one step and another, he vanished into the Beyond.

Solas traveled quickly to the small area of the fade that he had claimed as his own. It held artifacts of Elvhenan that he had slowly been collecting, small mementos from before his world had fallen apart. He placed his pack and staff with the rest of the items, standing to his feet in the form of a wolf. He shook himself once, and took off running; he had a lot of ground to cover before nightfall.

He made it in plenty of time, stepping out of the Beyond in his wolf form, nose high to smell the world. He had not done this since he had awoken, and he relished the feeling of physical power he held in this form. He howled his arrival, and the local wolves howled back a joyful chorus. He bound down the mountain, searching for the company of three charged with protecting his heart.

He found them without too much trouble, his mark on her hand distinctive from even this distance. They were approaching an inquisition camp, and he approved of the added security they would provide. He had no doubts as to her ability to protect herself, but he was far too fond of his heart to wish her anywhere but in the center of safety.

He paced a circle around the camp, tempted to lay down wards. But he knew that Ellana would sense his magic should he use it, and it was too early yet for him to reveal himself. It had only been a few months. She still had moments of overwhelming fear when she encountered him in the fade. He could not afford to be reckless.

Certain that the area was free of threats, he settled down to wait for morning.

 

-

 

The Emerald Graves was a place steeped in elvhen history, each tree a remembrance of lives lost, each bit of rubble all that was left of a grand palace, or villa, or arch. He had a series of very specific memories attached to the place, and he was glad that he was in the physical world. It would be far too easy to shape the fade to his memories, and get lost in all the times before. Not all of them happy.

He lay in the underbrush patiently as they packed up their things, buckling on bracers and strapping on quivers. Ellana had brought Iron Bull and Sera along on this quest for Vivienne, and the mage and archer could not help but argue as they got ready for the day; their natures were far too opposed for anything else. Ellana grandly ignored them both, getting updates and analysis from Scout Harding.

"Alright. That's enough you two. Time to get going." the Inquisitor attached her staff to her back and strode out without another word, leaving both Vivienne and Sera scrambling to catch up, while Iron Bull just laughed and laughed.

Solas paced after them, his white coat dulled, hidden from them by the dense underbrush. He did not reveal himself, simply followed in their wake. He would act only in event of emergency. But he did not expect such an event to occur. Each member of the inner circle was highly skilled in combat, and Sera and Vivienne worked well as a team, even if they bickered the whole time.

Eventually, they came upon a rift, and he crouched low as he could, sliding forward. Fifteen feet, ten, five feet from Sera he stopped, quivering with the need to act. This was the first time the Inquisitor was going to close a rift without him being present. He intended guided her powers with his own, as he always did, smoothing the way and bolstering her will with his. This was done for a two-fold reason.

The first was that, at the beginning, she had needed his assistance. She was no Dreamer to manipulate the fade, and no elvhen to control such massive amounts of power. Without his guidance, there was a very real possibility that she would rip a rift open in her own hand. This was no longer the case, but she was used to closing the rifts a certain way. To do so without his assistance was to invite suspicion he hadn’t the luxury of entertaining.

The second reason was born out of a far more selfish goal. With each rift he helped her close, he regained a portion of his power. The rifts were smaller spawns of the breach. And the breach was a physical manifestation of his power. He left the power in her anchor alone - though he could have sipped from it as well - contenting himself with recovering all of the energy stored in the rifts. He hadn’t the ability to affect them without her anchor, but he could reabsorb them once she had touched them.

He reached out, timing it perfectly after months of performing this trick. She activated his power in her hand, nowhere near as wild as it had been when she first began closing rifts, and poured energy from her palm into the gap in the air. He formed a tunnel with his magic, larger than it needed to be, simply to act as a barrier to any energy that escaped her grasp. At first, she’d not contained it at all, and he had burned as his magic, not quite tuned in a way that he could use it, grated along his mind. He’d had a migraine for three days after that first rift.

But things were different now; she almost didn’t need him. In fact, he suspected that she allowed portions of the mark’s power to escape her simply to ensure that she still had his support.

When the rift finally folded, its energy rushing through his veins again, Solas disentangled himself before she could recognize his presence. But Ellana was staring at her hand in confusion anyway.

"Something the matter, my dear?" Vivienne asked solicitously.

"It was easy as it's always been," Ellana murmured.

"Well, you’ve done it enough times, yeah?" Sera chimed in.

"You're right." The Inquisitor dropped her hands, and began to lead them away. "I'm sure that's it."

 

-

 

True to his word to the Inquisition's spymaster, Solas returned to Skyhold a full week before Ellana did, an amulet of Fen'Harel dangling from his fingers. He'd found it in an old shrine, covered in brush. It still contained a piece of his power. No more than a thread, it was still enough to bolster his mana pool. He had been living on broken shards of his magic for years, slowly deepening his strength. He was still only a quarter of his former self, but so, so much better than he had been upon awakening. A few more of his tokens, a few more rifts, and he just might have enough of _himself_ returned to be able to unlock his orb the rest of the way. Assuming they could pry it from Corypheus’ hands.

He had been a fool when he’d allowed the orb out of his grasp. He knew the sort of being Corypheus was, knew the power that he craved. But he’d never expected the corrupted magester to survive the unlocking of the first seal. Nor to do it in such a manner that left so many innocents dead, and the world in such turmoil.

He’d intended to be clever. To rid the world of this dangerous being, while simultaneously unlocking enough of his power that he would be able to open the orb the rest of the way. And while Corypheus struggled with his orb, he would travel the world, gathering crumbs of his power left in secret places, so that when they met again - when Corypheus was destroyed by the unlocking - he would be strong enough to absorb the power left in his foci.

But he had badly misjudged the magester’s ingenuity, and overestimated his ability to gather his lost magics.

Wrenching his mind from his numerous past wrongs, Solas set his pack back in its place in the rotunda. He did not go back up to the rookery to report his return. The Nightingale would already know.

He settled at the desk facing the wall, unconcerned with the fact that it left his back exposed to the entire room. It had been his sanctuary from war when he had lead the rebellion from Skyhold. And it was his again as he followed another’s lead. The walls hummed with reverberations of his power. Nothing he could use, or he would have sucked it dry long ago. But sympathetic enough that the slow thrumming acted as a soothing balm to his soul.

The door behind him opened, but he did not turn to look. It was Varric, of course. The dwarf was a heavy weight of reality, a solid rock against Solas’s awareness. He may have been born on the surface, but all dwarves were children of the stone.

“Good evening, Master Tethras,” Solas said, keeping the smirk out of his voice but not off his face. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Just glad to see you back, Chuckles. The Inquisitor would have been disappointed to find you’d scampered in the night.” Varric’s voice held a faint note of censure, as if he’d thought Solas had done just that.

“I apologize, if that is how it appeared.” Solas stood from his desk and turned to face the dwarf, leaning back against it with arms folded across his chest. “But I did not leave without informing our spymaster.”

“Nightingale knew? Well, shit. No wonder. Next time you tell me, all right? Nightingales aren’t known for their singing.” Varric grumped, but was no longer upset. For a master of stories and lies, he was remarkably easy to placate. Perhaps he sensed the truth of Solas’s words.

Solas didn’t bother to hide his chuckle. Because, they were both well aware of the truth. Nightingales were known far and wide - by the people that knew such things - as the bird with the most varied and beautiful songs.

“Indeed, Master Tethras,” Solas said, placing a hand on his heart and bowing at the waist, mocking subservience. “Forgive my transgression. I shall do as you command.”

“Was that sarcasm, Chuckles? I never knew you had it in you!”

“There are many things about me for which you are unaware,” Solas informed him dryly.

“There’s a solution to that, you know,” Varric said thoughtfully. “Wicked Grace reveals all a person’s secrets.” His eyes turned challenging, “dare to play?”

Solas considered. He’d encountered Wicked Grace before. There had been many games of its ilk across time, each of them designed to pit one person’s lies against another. He had always enjoyed such contests. And he was admittedly curious about how much the storyteller would be able to pry from him. “A unique challenge. I accept.”

“Wonderful!” Varric clapped his hands and moved towards the table in the middle of the floor. “I just so happen to have a deck on hand.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellana falls into the fade.

It had taken months of concentrated effort, but it all paid off the moment Feynriel finally found himself shifting from elf to bird. He’d chosen a raptor, a large eagle, far more comfortable with the idea of being predator, than prey. He’d spent too much time cowering in his life; first in the alienage, then in the circle tower, and even now to a certain extent, with his master.

Fen’Harel stood before him, gazing at him with eyes full of pride. “Well done, Feynriel. This is one of the most advanced techniques, and you have performed it flawlessly. Not every Dreamer in Arlathan managed this, but you have. Congradulations.”

Feynriel squawked, and fluffed his feathers, preening them back down with satisfaction. Fen’Harel was a hard task-master, but he was fair with both scoldings and praise; Feynriel was almost glowing with the elvhen’s words.

“Now,” Fen’Harel said, stepping back, “mould the fade to a clifftop. You need space to fly.”

Feynriel glanced at Fen’Harel uncertainly, but did as he was bid, the blank canvas of the Beyond shifting under his will. The cliff edge he envisioned faded into being, not as believable as the places Fen’Harel crafted, it lacked the detailed touches the Trickster was so good at, but it was all he needed for the moment. He hopped forward and peered over the edge of the cliff tentatively. Then he swallowed and the cliff shrank; that was certainly too tall. Behind him, Fen’Harel chuckled.

“Don’t be nervous. We are in a world of your imagination. You will fly because you wish to.”

Feynriel shook himself, then hopped forward once more. The Wolf was right. He could do this. He’d been practicing for months, envisioning it, and he would not back down now. The hardest part was already over. He crouched, lifted his wings, and launched himself into the sky with a push from his legs and a great downbeat of his wings. Wind whistled past, and he flapped again, feeling the tug of gravity, but denying its hold. Legs nestled comfortably to his breast, he aimed for the sky, gazed fixed on a cloud high above. He was moving faster than he’d thought, and reached it with a few more wingbeats. Startled with how easy it all was, Feynriel locked his wings in a gliding motion, small adjustments in his wing and tail feathers made unconsciously to keep him flying straight.

A howl from below had him glancing down, and he saw the Dread Wolf standing on the edge of the cliff, snow ghosting from his shoulders. Feynriel cried back, wheeling in the air towards his friend. The wolf howled again, and took off running, away from the eagle. Feynriel screamed in challenge and followed, unsure if he would win the race, but unwilling to concede from the start.

Together, Wolf and Eagle dashed across the world of dreams.

 

-

 

“Varric?”

Varric turned and saw the Inquisitor hurrying after him. “Yes, your Worship?” he said, knowing how the title grated on her nerves.

She rolled her eyes and kept coming. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Varric continued walking once she’d caught up, heading for his room and bed. “All right, but make it quick. I have a date with my pillow, and even Bianca won’t hold it against me.”

Ellana chuckled. “I was wondering: did you not invite Solas, or did he refuse to come?”

“Chuckles? Oh, I definitely didn’t invite him.” Ellana’s hurt expression hurried him to explain, “I told him he should referee, but let him know he wasn’t allowed to play. He’s good. Frighteningly good. Wiped me of my gold in three hands. I’m not sure even Ruffles could take his money, though I’m sure she’d try.”

Ellana’s frown cleared, and she laughed. “Not what I expected to hear you say.”

“I know, right?” Varric shrugged eloquently. “I don’t know where he learned to bluff like that, but he has no tells whatsoever. I’ve never seen it before! We only played three hands, but it was like playing against three different people. One was bold, one timid, and the last…” Varric threw his hands up. “He played me well, that’s all I’ll say.”

Ellana smiled, pleased to hear that Solas had made such a good showing. “And Leliana?”

“Couldn’t find her, though not from lack of trying.” Varric sighed. “You know her. If she was in hiding mode, not even her birds would find her.”

Ellana’s hand came up and pressed against Varric’s shoulder, a comforting touch. “Thanks for tonight, Varric. I had a lot of fun. Even if Sera was drunk under the table the whole time.”

Varric laughed. “I _told_ her not to drink Tiny’s Qunari shit!”

 

-

 

She did not take him to Adamant.

“I’m sorry, Solas. Truly. But it just doesn’t make sense. I need Blackwall there, to deal with the other Grey Wardens, if he can. I need Cassandra, because she can block magic like a templar. And I need someone to open doors that will undoubtedly be locked. There’s just no more room for another mage.” She stared up at him, hand on his arm.

Solas smiled, dropped a kiss on her lips. “Do not concern yourself with me. I have no burning desire to stand at the front. I will join the Chargers,” his eyes laughed, even as his voice remained solemn, “I hear they lack a mage.”

Ellana snickered. “You don’t mind? Truly? I’d bring you with me if I could.”

“Do not concern yourself so much with me, I have strength enough for this. I will protect your back, as I always have.”

She smiled up at him, kissed the underside of his chin, and he hummed happily. “Teach me your barrier, at least? It’s stronger and lasts longer than any I’ve seen before. If I’m going to be the only mage, I’ll need to be able to cast it.”

“As you wish.”

 

-

 

The Chargers were grateful for his presence alongside them, Bull roaring out challenges from the front as everyone else tore through their enemies like tissue. Dalish had initially looked concerned when he’d joined them. But when he had done nothing but nod in her direction, and take his staff in hand, she had relaxed minutely. With two of them casting barriers, the whole company was covered, where before Dalish had been required to pick amongst the ones farthest forward, and the ones most injured.

Iron Bull had them claim a spot on the ramparts and hold it, waves of corrupted Grey Wardens breaking against their defenses. The Inquisitor had passed this position long before they’d reached it, Hawke and Stroud in her wake. Her small group of fighters were deadly against the mages Corypheus controlled, allowing them to pierce a hole through the Grey Warden lines, and slip deep into their stronghold. Fenris has split from Hawke then, remaining with the Chargers to help hold the ramparts.

He was magnificent in battle. The lyrium sang, and audible song to the mages that spoke of death to enemies and protection to allies. It was so easy to tune his own magic to the song, and Solas found his mana bolstered by Fenris’s energy humming in the air. The other elf swung his greatsword with ease, dashing in and out of the fight where he was most needed. One minute he was right next to Iron Bull, swirling his sword in a circle at neck-height, his reach long enough to catch enemies unaware. The next second, he was beside Dalish, his fist buried in the rogue's chest who had been about to stab her in the back. Solas was never so glad for his ability to pay attention to multiple things at once, as he cast a bolt of lightning at an enemy and was also able to witness Fenris glow brilliant blue as he phased partially into the fade and a flurry of arrows blew right through him as if he was air.

A roar from overhead had everyone looking up, and Iron Bull shouted, “Dragon!” and everyone ducked as the beast flew overhead, the gust of wind from its downbeat enough to fling a few unwary souls off the edge to their deaths. “Shit, that’s not good,” Bull said, his war axe resting on his shoulder.

“The spell has been disrupted, though there is a large rift in the center of the castle,” Solas told him, pushing a wave of healing energy through the Chargers. It was weaker for not being pinpoint, but there was a collective sigh of relief as it knit skin and soothed weary muscles.

“The Boss’ll handle it.” Bull said confidently, and Solas nodded. Neither of them were Andrastians, but they both believed in Ellana.

The battle quieted, and news passed slowly down the line: the dragon had been driven off, but the Inquisitor - and all her team - had fallen through a rift in the fade.

Bull and Solas shared a look. Then Bull nodded, and Solas moved to an out of the way corner, and settled himself into it, his eyes slipping closed. Before he could throw himself into the fade, Fenris approached.

“Solas!” Fenris yelled.

“What’s he doing? Now’s not the time for a nap,” Crem said, looking at the mage in disgust.

“He’s a Dreamer, Crem. A somniari. He’s going to look for her - for them,” Bull told him calmly.

Solas stared up at the other elf, the two of them sharing a moment of complete understanding.

“I will keep you safe,” Fenris promised the mage.

“And I will get them back.” Solas closed his eyes, and was gone.

Fenris turned his back on the mage curled up in the corner, pulled his bloodied sword from his back, and held it casually in one hand, his eyes flitting over the ramparts. He could not get his wife back from the Beyond. But he could defend the one that would.

Crem considered the tattooed elf who looked grave as death.. Then he turned to look at the sleeping man. “Good luck,” he wished them softly.

 

-

 

“This...is the fade?” Blackwall asked dubiously, looking around at the floating rocks and strange green sky.

“Looks different than the last time I was here. Is it because we aren’t dreaming?” Hawk mused, as she stepped down from the wall to stand on the same floor as everyone else.

“Did it look like this when you were here last time, Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked, shifting her hold on her shield uneasily.

“Dwarves shouldn’t _be_ in the fade,” Varric grumbled to no one.

“I don’t remember,” Ellana said, taking a step forward to peer around. “But it looks a lot like the fade does when I dream.” She wished now that she’d brought Solas. She would feel a lot safer with a Dreamer guarding her back.

“Well, how do we get out of here?” Stroud asked.

The group of six looked around, as if direction had meaning in the Beyond.

“Well, we came in through a rift, and I apparently left through one the first time I did this.” Ellana gestured at the swirling green vortex off in the distance. “Let’s see if we can reach it.”

They set off, encountering both benign and aggressive spirits. Ellana was almost shocked the first time they were attacked, she was so used to Fen’Harel’s protection, and she was slow with her barrier because of it.

“I’m sorry!” she said to Cassandra, who had taken the brunt of the attack. “Are you alright?” The Inquisitor possessed no healing skill, but she made sure to keep her stock of elfroot potions up, and she passed one to Cassandra.

“I am fine,” the other woman told her, pressing the bottle back into Ellana’s hands. “Save it for when our need is more dire.”

They traveled for a while, taking on groups of demons large and small, and every so often they encountered an eluvian. Upon reaching the third such, Ellana stopped to study it. “What is this doing here?” she wondered softly, and Hawke stepped up beside her.

“Is that an eluvian?” the human asked, her head cocked to the side, birdlike.

The Inquisitor turned to her with surprised eyes. “You know what it is?”

Hawke nodded. “One of my companions was a Dalish - Merril. She had one.” Hawk’s face twisted to a scowl. “She used blood magic to try and fix it. Got her Keeper killed.”

Ellana sucked in her breath through her teeth.

“Inquisitor!” Blackwall called in alarm, and both women turned.

Beyond the range of Cassandra’s charge and Varric’s arrows, stood a massive white wolf, eyes of ice, with snow falling from his shoulders.

“Fen’Harel!” Ellana cried joyously, and raced towards the wolf with open arms. She missed the looks of utter shock that passed over the faces of Hawke and Varric as she threw her arms around the wolf’s neck in a tight hug.

“Did she just say…” Hawke began.

“Fen’Harel?” Varric finished, and the two friends shared a look.

“The elvhen God?” Hawk asked, both for clarification, and to fill in the rest of the group. “God of lies and deceit, who banished the others of the Pantheon?”

“And then spent centuries giggling to himself in glee?” Varric said, watching as the oversized canine nuzzled into the Inquisitor’s shoulder like a tame pet.

Ellana giggled, _giggled,_ and turned to her companions. “That’s the one. Well, I mean. It’s his name, anyway.”

The wolf sat down, and gave a polite woof.

“Maker,” Cassandra said, her sword loosening in her grasp, and it fell to the ground with a clang.

“Cassandra!” Ellana said, stepping towards her in concern. “Are you all right? What happened?” She fumbled for the elfroot potion again.

“If he is here - _real_ \- what does that mean to the Chantry?” Cassandra asked, lost and hopeless.

Ellana stopped, turning to look at the wolf over her shoulder. She’d never asked him about Solas’s theory that he wasn’t a god. But it seemed she needed to, now. “Fen’Harel…” she began, moving back towards him cautiously. “My friend, the Dreamer, he...has a theory about you.”

Understanding the importance of what was to come next, Fen’Harel curled his tail around his toes and pricked his ears, listened intently.

“He said...you are not a god. But...a man. Elvhen. He...has dreamed of your birthplace. He said your parents were...merchants?” Ellana’s voice got quieter and quieter as she spoke, until the people behind her were leaning forward to catch her last words.

Fen’Harel stared at her, then looked past her, to the group assembled beyond. He looked them each in the eyes, then nodded, once.

Cassandra blew out a breath, looking dazed. “Not a god?” She looked at the wolf, who cocked his head at her.

It stood, approached, and though Cassandra flinched, she stood her ground. It looked her in the eyes for a long moment, before lowering his head, and nosing the hilt of her sword towards her. Then he backed up a few steps and managed to look both polite and impatient.

Ellana came up, and placed a hand on its shoulder. “Not a god, Cassandra.”

The wolf huffed and moved passed the Seeker, farther into the group of humans and dwarf, allowing each an opportunity to study him in turn.

“We need to get out of here, and I’m positive that Fen’Harel can help us,” the Inquisitor said.

Cassandra shared a look with Blackwall, then pressed her lips together and nodded. “Very well, Inquisitor. I trust you.”

The group gathered in a loose bunch, with Ellana on point, and the Wolf ahead of them all. He gave a sharp bark, then turned and trotted away, tail at a jaunty angle. He left tracks in the snow.

 

-

 

When they encountered the Divine Justinia, Fen’Harel went to sit on the side of the area, and went still as stone. He did not move, not so much as a twitch of his ears, while Cassandra questioned the Divine, her voice full of doubt and hope. It was only at the end, when the Divine turned towards him, that he came back to life at all.

“Fen’Harel-” the Divine began.

But a sharp bark of command from the wolf had her stopping. He stood and walked toward the Divine on stiff legs, not stopping until his nose was inches from her face. He stared into her eyes silently, body vibrating with tension.

Then she bowed her head. Not in subservience, but in acquiescence. “Very well.”

The Great Wolf touched her gently on the shoulder with his nose, and her hand came up to rest on his head.

“What _is_ all this?” Hawk whispered to Varric.

“Hell if I know, Hawke,” Varric shrugged. “But I know Daisy will scream when she hears about it.”

The Divine turned back to the group of mortals. “The Great Wolf has said that he will protect you as you pass through the lair of the Nightmare. I will search the area ahead, and meet you farther on.”

“Thank you,” the Inquisitor said, including both spirit and wolf in the gesture.

The Divine inclined her head, and vanished.

They were attacked almost immediately by a group of spirits who, according to the Divine, contained fragments of the memories that had been taken from the Inquisitor the last time she was here. The wolf growled, fierce and low, and ripped into three of them with claws and teeth. The six mortals made quick work of the rest, and soon Ellana was absorbing the memories through the anchor. The wolf watched with curious eyes, as the memories played out for all to see.

Not long after the last one lapsed into silence, another voice spoke, booming into the clearing with power. **“Ah, I see that I have guests. Welcome, Inquisitor, to my domain. You claim that which is lost? Memories of fear I have so kindly removed.”**

“What is that?” Stroud asked nervously.

“The Nightmare, I would assume,” Ellana told him, feigning calm she did not feel. Fen’Harel came up and pressed into her side. She threaded her fingers into the fur of his shoulders greatfully.

_“You think to stop Corypheus, and his army of demons? I am that army, its horde is mine to command. And soon, I will be free of this place.”_

“Then I will stop you, just as I will stop him!” the Inquisitor shouted fearlessly into the dark.

The Nightmare came back with a dark chuckle, **“how quickly you forget, little elf, where you stand. You are in my domain, and I know your every fear.”**

Silence fell, for the moment, and the group pushed on, creeping ever closer to the swirling light in the distance. It wasn’t long though, before they were attacked by a group of monstrosities, spiders the size of mabari, with glowing eyes and teeth dripping with deadly poison. Ellana shuddered as she set one on fire. Somehow, they were worse here in the fade, than they were in the physical world.

“Ugh,” she shuddered, when the last one fell with a horrible screech. “Why is it always spiders?”

“Spiders?” Varric asked, clearly shaken. “Is _that_ what you saw? I could handle spiders. But _that_ was _not_ spiders.”

Ellana paused, looked at the rest of the group. “Anyone else see spiders?”

Slow shakes of the head, then Stroud volunteered, “Mabari. Mauled by one in my first battle.”

Ellana took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Then it is safe to assume that we all saw something different. How marvelous.”

**“You worshiped the Grey Wardens, Blackwall. Thought them heroes, sacrificing everything for the good of all. But those sniveling cowards in the physical world are _nothing_ like the Grey Wardens of old.”**

Blackwall stiffened, and answered with dignity, “the Grey Wardens have sacrificed and died for the good of all Thedas for almost a thousand years. And your lies will not change that.”

_“No? How do you think the world will see the Grey Wardens, once the truth of their corruption gets out? But you need not worry about their fate, you are nothing like a Grey Warden.”_

“Fantastic,” Hawke said dryly. “Now it's taunting us.”

The wolf growled, and the Nightmare laughed.

**“You think to stop me, Dread Wolf? Your power is greatly diminished, you haven’t the strength to silence me. This is _my_ territory and _you are trespassing.”_**

A sickly purple glow enveloped the Great Wolf, who yelped in pain and collapsed, falling heavily to the ground.

“Fen’Harel!” Ellana cried, the rest of the group echoing her distress as an impassable barrier of rock sprang up between them and the incapacitated wolf.

Fen’Harel shifted, struggled to his feet, the purple constricting into a band that tightened around his throat and chest.

“No!” Ellana cried, reaching out, hoping to help however she could. “Fen’Harel!”

The Great Wolf’s hindquarters dropped, but his shoulders remained high, and his snarl of anger was undiminished for the purple energy.

**“You are not so strong!”** The Nightmare said with glee, **“your power has been usurped by another. I will crush what little spirit you have, and feed upon your remains.”**

But the wolf did not give in, and the rock wall Ellana was pressed against suddenly vanished.

**“No!”**

Ellana dashed towards Fen’Harel. She flung herself upon his back, arms around his neck, the anchor pressed to the soft underside of his throat. He threw his head back, letting out an unearthly howl that sent shivers down her spine and joy skittering to her toes.

Fen’Harel did something Ellana never would have expected. He pulled from the power of the anchor. He pulled and _pulled,_ a violent motion that drew far more power from her mark than she’d ever managed to activate when using it to close rifts. She cried out for the pain, but only pushed her hand against him more strongly, willing him to take whatever he needed. They glowed green from their combined power.

**“You cannot-”**

The voice cut off, the overbearing presence of the Nightmare lifted, the purple energy breaking away, and the Great Wolf collapsed onto his belly, Ellana perched on his back, panting heavily.

“Well,” Varric said, breaking the silence. “That was dramatic.”

Ellana sat up, straddling the wolf’s ribs as she did her hart, and gave her friends a fierce grin. “I’d say he won that confrontation.”

The wolf grunted, and heaved himself to his feet, causing Ellana to yelp in surprise and windmill her arms frantically before she managed to grab two handfuls of the fur over his shoulders to steady herself. He took off at a trot just fast enough to make it unwise for her to attempt a dismount. Behind her, she could hear her companions laugh, and Ellana just _knew_ her ears were turning red.

“Well,” she said, loosening her death grip as she got used to his more fluid stride. “This is new.”

Fen’Harel barked a laugh and sped up. Ellana twisted to look behind them, concerned for her friends, and found them - somehow - keeping pace.

 

-

 

They fought no more demons, after Fen’Harel won the confrontation with the Nightmare. They would materialize, everyone would tense, and then Fen’Harel would do nothing more than flick his ears, and the demons would vanish.

After the third time that happened, Hawke said, “he’s handy to have around. Can we keep him?”

Fen’Harel’s tongue lolled in amusement, and the Inquisitor laughed outright from her position atop his ribs. “He’s not exactly housebroken.”

Fen’Harel grunted in disgust and stopped in his tracks. Bracing his feet, he twisted his shoulders as if to shake her off.

Laughing, Ellana leaned down, wrapped her arms around his neck. “No, no. I’m sorry. That was mean.”

He huffed, but began walking.

“Something’s happening!” Blackwall yelled, head spinning around rapidly.

“The fade is changing!” Stroud said in alarm, drawing his blade.

Indeed, it was. What had once been a difficult path of broken rocks, and deep pools of water was slowly smoothing out to a wide road, boulders lining the sides, with strange fade-trees rising up from behind them. It was straight, with no turns, and lead exactly towards the rift that was their destination.

“Is this you?” Ellana asked, looking down at the wolf.

He barked, and _ran,_ the mortals swept up behind him in a whirlwind of power. Ellana laughed, and leaned down, grasping his fur and moving with him. In a matter of minutes, they arrived, with nary a sign of the Nightmare, or any of his demons. The Divine waited for them at the exit, and Fen’Harel sat on his haunches, allowing the Inquisitor to slide from his back.

“Welcome, Inquisitor,” the Divine said. “I see the Great Wolf has brought you through safely. I am glad.” She turned to face the wolf, who pricked his ears. “Your battle with the Nightmare has not gone unnoticed. And though it is greatly diminished, even now it recovers its strength.”

The wolf nodded, the most human gesture they’d seen from it yet, and it left the group feeling a little uneasy.

The Divine turned back to the Inquisitor. “Close the rift when you get through, and the Nightmare will remain trapped on this side.”

Ellana nodded, and turned to say goodbye to Fen’Harel. But the Wolf was gone.

 

-

 

On the battlements, Solas groaned as he opened his eyes.

“You all right there, Solas?” Iron Bull said, hovering above him. “You glowed that scary green for a second.”

“I will be fine,” Solas said, using his staff to aid his ascent to his feet, then turned to look at Fenris, even as he spoke to everyone. “The Inquisitor has returned, and closed the rift. All companions accounted for.”

“Ha ha! That’s great news!” Iron Bull slapped Solas on his back exuberantly, and the mage staggered under the blow.

Crem stepped up, a vial of lyrium in his hand. “Here you go. Thought you might need this.”

“Thank you, but no.” Solas said, straightening to his full height. “It is not needed.”

Crem watched Solas and Fenris walk away, the two in perfect step, with a frown of confusion.

“Don’t worry about it, Crem,” Iron Bull said, slinging his war axe onto his back. “He never takes lyrium. Only mage I’ve ever seen that doesn’t.”

“I wonder why.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellana takes a bath, and Fen'Harel tells a tale.

Ellana exiled the Grey Wardens from Orlais, much to Blackwall’s displeasure. But the Inquisitor would not be swayed.

“You wanted me to keep them around?” she asked of Blackwall incredulously. “When they have already proven to be so easily manipulated by Corypheus?”

“The Grey Wardens made a mistake. But they fought to correct it when the time came, and they’ll be needed again when another blight comes.” Blackwall scowled.

“The last blight ended ten years ago. They happen only about once every hundred years. And by all accounts, the dragon Corypheus controls is not an archdemon. Meaning the Grey Wardens are not needed right now, and are in fact a very large liability! I will _not_ put the people in harm’s way to save their ego _or_ yours. They will return to Weisshaupt, far, _far_ away from Corypheus’ influence. And _when_ we defeat him, they will be allowed to return. In the mean time, they go.”

“I - you are right, of course. I hadn’t considered it that way.”

The Inquisitor softened to Ellana, and she braced a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I don’t hate the Grey Wardens, Blackwall. They are one of the few groups to see my people as _people,_ instead of a pair of ears. And, yes, they have made great sacrifices for _all_ peoples, and that deserves recognition. But they have also made grave mistakes, and they will need to atone. We will give them that chance.” She squeezed his shoulder softly, then padded on quiet feet from the barn.

She made the slow rounds, talking to all of the members of her inner circle, exchanging a few words with patrons at the bar, and getting caught up in a philosophical debate with Cassandra about Fen’Harel and exactly who (or what) he was. She did her best to help the Andrastian with her crisis of faith.

She escaped, only to be corralled by her advisers, who pulled her into the war room for another discussion about Fen’Harel in the fade.

She told them the story as best she was able, emphasizing his helpfulness in getting them all out alive. Eventually, so tired that she was about to drop, the meeting disbanded, and Ellana trudged down the hallway to find Solas waiting in one of the chairs by the fireplace.

“Ah,” he said, taking in her bedraggled appearance. “I suspected that they might not have the good sense to let you rest before grilling you on the details of the fade.”

She sighed, walking slowly towards the door and gesturing for him to follow her. “They wanted to know about Fen’Harel. Bit of a crisis of faith, finding out that an elvhen god actually exists.”

He frowned, a hand on the small of her back as he held the door open for her and guided her gently through. “I thought you told them about him the first time he visited you in your dreams?”

“I did,” she shrugged tiredly. “But of course they didn’t believe me. Now, they do.”

He hummed, and held open the door to her quarters. She stepped through, and stopped, staring up at the long flight of stairs ahead of her.

“Nevermind,” she said, turning in place. “I’ll sleep on your settee.”

“And where will I sleep?” Solas asked in amusement, one hand on the door as he warded it wordlessly.

She waved her hand through the air. “I don’t care. Here? On the roof? I’m _not_ climbing those stairs.”

“You don’t have to.” One hand behind her shoulders, he bent and swept the backs of her knees with the other, catching her weight as she toppled. She squeaked, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he chuckled as he took the stairs two at a time.

“You don’t have to do this,” she told him, and though her face was hidden in his chest, he could see the dull red flushing her ears.

Solas paused mid-step. “Inquisitor - Ellana - I know I have given you no firm answer. But do not doubt that I care for you. I only seek a way to tell you the truth. Let me care for you tonight. You deserve it.” He made it to the top and set her gently on her feet, bracing her for a moment as she swayed tiredly.

“Ohh,” she groaned, eyeing the tub set up in the middle of the room lustily.

“Shall I leave?” He offered like a gentleman.

She thought about it. “No, please. I think I’m going to need your help. I’m too tired…”

He understood. “Of course. Whatever you wish.”

She bent to undo the laces of her shoes, and wobbled precariously. He tsked, wrapped her in his arms, and set her on the bed. He knelt before her, undoing her shoes with practiced ease, and her breath caught as she thought of other things he could do from there. He smiled up at her, a small telling smirk upon his lips.

He stood, pulled her to her feet, and dropped a kiss, light as air, upon her lips. He helped her disrobe, gentle tugs as he loosened straps and untucked fabric. She swayed where she stood, lids half-closed. She would smile, if she weren’t so tired. It felt nice to be cared for.   
****

Once she was naked, he lead her to the tub and helped her step in, his hands on hips and shoulders for support only. Her eyes began to slip closed as soon as she relaxed into the warm water, and she let out a happy little sigh. He took a seat on a small, uncomfortable-looking stool at her side, and brought out a small wooden cup.

“May I?” he asked her, proffering the cup. He had to hold it high enough that she could see it from where she lay against the back of the tub.

“Mmm?” she asked, already half-asleep.

“Your hair,” he said tenderly. “May I wash it?”

“Ohh,” she groaned in anticipated pleasure. “You do that, and I will love you forever.”

He chuckled and leaned forward to dip the cup into the water. He slid one hand behind her neck to brace it, and poured the water carefully along the line of her hair with the cup. Not one drop fell onto her face, and she relaxed completely into his hold.

He let the cup float in the water, and dug through her toiletries with the other until he came up with her jar of shampoo. He set it on the floor between his feet, holding it still, while his hand twisted it open. The other one, still supporting her head, gently flexed, drawing out a pleased hum. He scooped some of the thick substance up with three fingers, and ran it in a long line along her scalp. Shifting forward slightly, he used both hands to support her head and work up a lather. She grunted and moaned as he scraped careful fingers along her scalp, rubbing away the dirt and grime of two worlds.

Once satisfied, he shifted his hold until he again supported her with one hand, patting the top of the water gently with his other to search for the cup. His eyes very carefully never left her face. It took him a few tries, the water gently rippling along the edge of the tub. But his hand eventually closed around its wooden surface, and he scooped water into it again. It took several cup fulls, but soon her hair was free of the shampoo.

He removed the cup from the tub, setting it on the floor beside it with a soft sound. Then he leaned in, gently tracing the features of her face with the hand not supporting her head.

“Ellana?” he whispered, hoping she had not fallen asleep.

“Mmm?”

“Can you wash yourself?”

She grunted a sound vaguely like an affirmative, flexed in an attempt to pull free of his grasp, and settled back into his hold before she’d even lost contact with his hand.

He chuckled softly, and Ellana couldn’t help but smile at the sound. She knew he cared for her, he showed it in a million different ways. But she’d never seen him like this. Soft and tender, a moment of quiet devotion so much _more_ than the gentle kisses they’d shared before. She wished she was more awake to appreciate it.

She was not particularly body-shy, but even her sleep muddled mind thought it too much to ask for him to wash her body as well. One more attempt, and she finally managed to rouse enough to accept the washcloth he handed her, already laced with soap.

Solas kept on hand on her back, between her shoulderblades as she ran the cloth over limbs so tired they trembled. Once or twice that hand moved to her shoulder, when he felt her beginning to tilt, and he would gently help her back upright. But his head was kept turned away. To preserve her non-existent modesty, no doubt.

Once finished, she threw the cloth over her shoulder where it landed with a wet sound against the back of his hand. When he did not move to take it, she pulled it back and hit him with it again. Taking the hint, Solas turned his hand over and accepted the washcloth into his palm, running it carefully over her shoulders and back down to the waterline. He did not attempt to go any farther, simply withdrawing his touch and laying the cloth over the edge of the tub.

Ellana leaned back in the water to rinse off the soap, grunting with effort as she sat back up. He helped her from the tub, and though she leaned against him, soaking his tunic, he did not care. He wrapped her in a thick towel, wide enough to cover her from neck to knees, and long enough to wrap twice around her.

Solas was smiling tenderly as he rubbed her shoulders and arms through the towel, eyes warm with affection. “You let them push you too hard,” he told her, urging her to lean into him.

She did so obligingly, resting her forehead against his chest as his hands went around her back, sliding soothingly up and down her spine. She grunted something that was not words.

He understood anyway. “Yes, and you push yourself too hard, as well. Halam’shiral was not made in a day, and neither will Enlea’sileal.” Solas wrapped his arms around her, laying his cheek on her damp hair, swaying them gently in place. “You work all the time. It is important to take some time for yourself. Do not burn yourself away for this cause - or any other. Your life is too precious to squander on such things.”

She wanted to say something to that, she really did. But her words had utterly vanished in the light of his.

He left her for a moment, only to return with a thick robe that he swung around her shoulders. _“I wish I was a spinner and tailor,”_ he said in El’vhen’an into the intimate quiet they had created, sure that the vocabulary would be beyond her. _“I would dress you in a gown of starlight, drape your neck with dreams, crown your ears with joy. You shine so brightly in this world gone dim, but you would be even brighter in the land of Elvhenan.”_

“That’s cheating,” she told him drowsily as he worked the towel free from under the robe and then used it to dry her hair. “I understood less than half of that.”

He chuckled, and laid her down upon the bed, her sleepy grumble bringing a soft smile to his face as he tugged the blanket from under her feet, laying it gently across her shoulders. She curled on her side, one hand outstretched, patting the bed softly as she searched for him. He kissed the top of her head, sweet and lingering. She was already asleep.

_“Vhenan,”_ he whispered his most dangerous secret into the darkness of her hair as she slept. “You have me utterly undone.”

-

“Fen’Harel?”

He twitched his ear towards her, but otherwise didn’t move. He was more comfortable than he had ever been; curled up in the sunlight, with his heart pressed to his back.

“Thank you. For coming to me in the fade. For revealing yourself to my friends. You didn’t have to do that, but I’m sure you saved our lives. _Ma serranas_. I am grateful.”

He turned to her, nuzzled her with his nose, and she giggled at the coldness of it. She wrapped her arms around his great head, closed her eyes, and thought about changing opinions. About tales warped by time. About trust earned, and a kind man who hid himself from her behind the body of an animal. She thought she might come to love him, if given enough time. Would he never speak to her as a man? And where did that leave her with Solas? He kept secrets from her as well, even as he dropped kisses upon her lips, fragile as dewdrops.

“Will you tell me,” she paused, took a deep breath as if bracing for heartache, and his stomach sank to his toes. “What happened with the gods?”

He froze so completely, even the body heat he was so careful to maintain for her leached from his form. The freezing ice did not come back, but she began to suspect that this was no longer a flesh and blood creature she held, but one of the statues dedicated to him she had seen so often. Ellana opened her eyes, and he was flesh still. But the breeze did not stir his fur, and there was no breath.

She opened her mouth to speak - what words she would use, she did not know - but shut it again when he heaved himself to his feet.

He padded to the end of the dock he had created for her. He settled down at the end, his tail hanging off the side edge, tip brushing the water. He stayed there, no movement save for the slow swish of his tail, and she began to regret her words. Not enough to take them back, but enough to regret the hurt they caused him. Eventually, he turned to look at her, and she stood to join him.

She looked at him with sorrow and he huffed. He tilted his head to the side, pressing it into her shoulder, and she reached up, tangling her hand in the fur between his shoulder blades as she had so often before.

Assured of her contact, he straightened, pricking his ears as if something interesting lay out in the lake.

Dutifully, she raised her eyes, and gasped in wonder as a window appeared in the air, shimmering images of what could only be Arlathan glowing before her.

It was exactly as Solas had told her all those months ago.

Glowing, glittering, grand, trees twisted into the sky, broad with ages. Elvhen: taller, broader, more muscular but somehow also more graceful as well, wandered the white archways between trees.

But he did not linger over the image, for just as she truly began to study it, longing to see each and every detail, the picture changed. One tree in particular, older and grander than all the rest, draped in jewels and dignity, towered above it all. It was to this one that her attention was drawn, and through this one’s halls that they began to travel.

It shimmered, but not with gold. Silver, spun the color of moonlight, decorated all the spaces. Capped doors, trimmed walkways, twisted through the flooring worn smooth by thousands of feet, silver and platinum and pewter. Every shade glimmered before her.

They traveled at a walking pace, towards a set of doors in the distance. When they reached them, hands made of black smoke came up to push them open, and Ellana’s stomach sank as she realized that Fen’Harel would still hide his image from her.

He threw the doors open, they slammed against the walls with a resounding bang, drawing the attention of all those gathered in the room. Ellana soaked in their images greedily, trying to guess who each person was. The woman with a horned helmet was Anduril, right? And the man fiddling with something was June. The man seated seated alone at the top had to be Elgar’nan. An empty throne sat beside him - Mythal. But before she could turn to Fen’Harel, ask them about her speculations, the Fen’Harel of the memory spoke. His voice was muddled, his tone shifted - up or down, it mattered not which - but his anger came through clear as a bell.

“How could you do this? Your own wife! How far will you sink, _all-father?”_

Elgar’nan roared to his feet, silks and furs tumbling from his shoulders. One hand rose to point imperiously at at the Fen’Harel that Ellana could not see, and her grip tightened on the fur in her hand. Surely the all-father was about to smite the Trickster for his gall.

“How _dare_ you speak to me that way! I rule the elvhen, and _I rule you!”_

“My life is my own, I bow to no man, and you have _gone too far._ I thought to keep Mythal’s defection a secret. To spare your precious pride. But your vengeance knows no bounds, does it?. And so you killed her. Your own wife -and you _killed her.”_

A gasp, a wail of sorrow, and the attendants standing along the wall slowly fell to their knees. Mythal was the best love of all the gods, and her betrayal was keenly felt. None questioned the truth of his statement, for it was known that Fen’Harel loved Mythal.

“ENOUGH!” June’s voice rang out over the marble space, cutting off whatever retort Elgar’nan was about to make, silencing the attendants.. “What is is that you are here for, Fen’Harel? You abandoned us long ago for your petty rebellion.”

The image shifted back and forth, as if the Fen’Harel of memory was pacing back and forth. “No love lost for Mythal, June? Of course. Let me share something else, then. The people are dying. Their lives shortened to that of babes. Dead before a century. Their whole lives lived in such a brief time.”

June’s eyes grew round with horror at this, where they had not for Mytha. “There is a disease?”

“If there is a disease, it comes from this very room,” Fen’Harel said, voice full of venom. Then the image shifted, focused on one person seated to the side, face a neutral blank. “What secrets do you know, brother? What knowledge do you hold in hushed whispers? Elgar’nan could not have done this alone.”

The person shrugged carelessly, one hand waving about at nothing. “I do not know everything, dear brother. There are secrets even from I. Perhaps you would care to share the nature of your knowledge?”

“Lies, Dirthamen. Your magic is all over the shemlin. Do you drain their life force to bolster your own?”

A  hushed murmur went around the room, each attendant glanced from one to the next in consternation; the gods were unmoved.

“Speak plainly, for once, Fen’Harel. What do you mean?” Called a voice from the back.

Fen’Harel paced to the front of the room, came to the center of the circle, and turned slowly in place as he spoke, meeting every pair of eyes he could. “We are old. Far, far too old. We should have laid down our power and entered the eternal sleep millennia ago. There are none, save the pantheon itself, who remember when we were judges. Kings. Rulers who served our people. Now we are gods, and we play petty games with the People’s lives. How many wars have we begun for childish grievances? How many lives tossed away for a divine elixir?

“I begged you to ignore this ‘god’ nonsense when it began. But instead you fanned the flames, encouraged the idea that we are somehow _better_ than the people we serve. You forgot that we serve them at all!” He spun about, hands blowing out wide. “You took _slaves_ of the followers of the Forgotten Ones after the rebellion, would have made slaves of my people - if you could have found them. How could you condone the act of one person _owning_ another?

“And now... _this?!”_ Fen’Harel’s voice filled with righteous fury.

Ellana found herself wrapping her arms fully around the wolf beside her. He was keening, distraught; small shivers wracking his frame. His head dropped, as if he was unwilling to watch anymore. She buried her face in his fur and listened.

“You have begun to strip them of their lives and magic! Siphoning off their essence to feed your own! An act made only more heinous by the fact that _you don’t need it.”_ He paused, voice dropping to a growl. “I can only assume that you got this idea from the children of the stone. That their short span of existence has encouraged in you a desire to sit ever higher above your frightened and adoring masses.”

There was silence, and Ellana assumed that the Fen’Harel in the window was gearing himself up for one, last grand pronouncement. The wolf in her arms hunched.

“No more. If you think I will watch you tear the People apart for your own vanity, destroy the very _essence_ of who they are, then you are wrong.”

Ellana couldn’t help but peer back up at the window with one eye. The image tracked from one god to another other. “Are there any here who can truly claim ignorance? Are there any who are not swollen on the blood and power of their followers?” He looked at one goddess, her eyes everywhere but on Fen’Harel as he addressed her. “Sylaise? Where is your protection for those that gather at a hearth now?” He spun, focusing on another god. “June? Teach them the craft to fight _this_ enemy.”

None of the gods would look at him; none dared even catch his eye. And none spoke. For who could lie convincingly to the God of Deceit?

“Are you trying to incite division in the ranks, Fen’Harel? Because you are doing a poor job of it.” The horned woman sneering down at Ellana through the window, vibrating with anger and aggression. Her bloodlust was palpable, and only Sylaise’s restraining hand kept her from flying at the Wolf then and there. Ellana shivered, and cuddled close to the Wolf.

“No. I am telling you that I will tolerate your abuses to your people no longer, _goddess of the hunt._ Dread the wolf at your heels, for I have your scent.”

“I dread no wolf!” She screeched, shaking Sylaise off and hurling herself off her stand like a wild animal, claws outstretched. Her infamous spear had been resting against her throne. So great was her anger that she left it for more a more intimate execution of the traitor. As soon as she touched the Great Wolf, green light enveloped them both and when it faded, she was gone.

“What have you done?” roared Elgar’nan.

“Given her to the Beyond.” And now Fen’Harel’s voice was sad, “I did not want it to come to this. I thought to stop you before your excesses became too great. But you leave me no choice. I will banish you, and the people will rule themselves.”

A cry went up, a roar, every god standing to their feet and howling their fury. Some ran towards him, others away. But it didn’t matter what they did, where they turned. The Wolf was upon them. One touch of his hand, and they vanished in a swirl of green magic. The attendants, most of them, stood to the side; neither helping nor harming as they watched Fen’Harel hunt down their gods. A few fought him; he ignored them utterly. The wounds they inflicted upon his hands and back healed instantly.

June went for a door in the side, and the archway flashed green. He never made it to the other side. Elgar’nan hurled Andruil’s abandoned spear at Fen’Harel’s back. The Dread Wolf flickered green, and it passed harmlessly through where he stood. A flash, a blur, and he stood behind the all-father. “I loved you, once,” Fen’Harel whispered, and before the other man could turn around, he too was gone.

There was only one left, the man Fen’Harel had addressed as both brother and Dirthamen. He alone had not fled. He alone sat relaxed in his chair. Fen’Harel stepped down from the dias, approached his brother with weary feet. “You do not flee?” he asked with soft sorrow.

“Of all the gods, I know best what your power is. How utterly useless our attempts to contain or restrict you. There is nowhere in this world or the next that is closed to you.” Dirthamen looked down at Fen’Harel, “You could have been the all-father. None of us could ever oppose you.”

“We are not gods.” Fen’Harel’s voice turned frustrated, “how could you _do_ this, Dirthamen? I know your power was the spark, but this quickening will not slow. Does godhood mean so much to you? Has that village life of our youth faded so much that you have forgotten it entirely?” Fen’Harel’s hand came up, pressed upon Dirthamen’s arm.

Dirthamen flinched, but did not attempt to pull away. None could hide from the Wolf.

“Will you not tell me how it was done?”

Dirthamen looked into Fen’Harel’s eyes, rage and fear overflowing. “Would you spare me if I did? Would you forgive Mythal’s murder, the enslavement of the People, the quickening of their lives? Would you leave me in peace, hunt me no more, allow me to do as I willed?”

And Fen’Harel’s voice was sad. So sad. Like a baby’s last breath, like love cut short. Like family betrayed. “No.”

“And I will not tell you how it was done. May you walk forever alone in these empty halls, _Dread Wolf.”_

The green magic rose, and Dirthamen was gone.

****

-

****

Ellana woke with tears streaming down her cheeks, crying so hard she could not breathe. She hurled herself from her soft bed and onto the cold stone floor. Fighting her instinct to curl up on her side, she forced herself onto her back, raised her hands up above her head as far as they would go, and tried to take deep breaths. Her first gasp of air, tiny as it was, was a relief, and the panic ebbed just a bit. Another breath, and the feeling shrank again. She lay there, just breathing, for many long minutes, trying to calm her racing heart.

That was not the tale she was expecting to hear, when she’d asked about the fall of the gods. Much had been communicated to her, far more than had come across in words. Anduril was more than the goddess of the hunt. She was the goddess who hunted slaves.

No wonder Fen’Harel had reacted so poorly to her prayer that night.

Dirthamen did more than keep secrets. He _blackmailed_ his followers, and the followers of others, forced them to turn against family, betray one for another.  Falon’din was the god of death because he caused so much of it. June was the one who pushed for slavery, and Elgar’nan had raised them all to divinity.

Fen’Harel banished them to the Beyond. The fade. Where they there still, wandering and lost? Had they died, perhaps in pain and starvation?

Ellana brought her hand down, stared at the mark that gave her power over the rifts. Over the breach. That let her open and close gaps in the fade at will. That glowed the same green as Fen’Harel’s power.

Solas had told her that Corypheus’ orb was a _foci,_ an instrument for focusing a god’s power. She had no doubt as to who that orb belonged to. Whose power was carved into her hand. And whose power Fen’Harel had pulled from not two days previous.

Was that why he had come to her, all those months ago? To reclaim the power carved into her hand?

But - no. He had never once shown any interest in it before Adamant.

Feeling strangely detached in the wake of these revelations, Ellana stood to her feet and moved to the washbasin. She scrubbed the sweat and grime from her skin, feeling slightly more alive as she pulled on clean clothes.

If his story was true (and she suspected that it was) then he had betrayed the gods because they had betrayed the people first. Enslaved them. Stolen their magic. Were responsible for the quickening that slowed their lives. It made more sense than simple contact with humans.

Ellana exited her room to the great hall, slipping quietly and unnoticed amongst the servants moving between the tables - setting up for the morning meal. She moved in a daze, entering the door by the fireplace, stepping into the rotunda to see Solas stretching.

“Ellana?” he said, surprised to see her. She sought him out often, but never this early. Never since the Dread Wolf had first appeared in her dreams. “Did something happen?”

She shook her head. Nodded. Shrugged. She bit her lip and looked away. Soft footsteps and she looked up just in time for him to envelope her in a warm embrace. She leaned against him, arms creeping around his sides to clutch at the fabric of his shirt. She buried her nose in his chest and _breathed._

_“Ir abelas,”_ Solas whispered into her hair, sorrow in his voice, his hand rubbing soothing circles along her neck. “I wish I could find you in the fade, stand with you while he haunts you. But he hides you thoroughly.”

She shook her head, the movement hurting her nose, she was pressed to him so tightly. “No,” she said, her voice so muffled as to be almost unintelligible. “He does not hurt me. Truly, he does not even scare me anymore. It’s just...I finally got up the courage to ask him what happened to the gods. If he sealed them away, _why_ he sealed them away.”

“And?”

“He told me. It was...not what I expected.”

Solas pulled back, dropped a soft kiss upon her lips. Ellana blinked. He’d been doing things like that more and more. She loved all of it, but was becoming increasingly impatient with him. He would not commit to a relationship, but strung her along with sweet moments of affection. She loved him, but would not wait for him forever. “Solas…”

“I know. I am sorry.” He understood exactly, and blushed for shame.

“All right. Just...hurry up. I said I wouldn’t push, but I also won’t wait forever.”

“I understand.” He let her go, putting enough space as was prudent between them, and folded his arms behind his back. “What did he show you?”

“The truth, I believe.” Ellana hopped up on his table, scrubbing a hand along her face. “And if this is the truth of the gods, the truth of Elgar’nan…” she gestured to her face, the tattoos that marked her as a servant of the all-father. “I don’t want them. Wish I’d never gotten them.”

“You...mean that?” Solas asked, looking truly stunned.

“I do,” Ellana growled. “You were right all along! They weren’t gods at all, just powerful mages. And Elgar’nan is responsible for the quickening! Not the humans as we have long been taught. He and Dirthamen. _Keeper of Secrets,”_ she spat. “Fen’Harel’s brother, it seems. Elgar’nan had Mythal killed, or he did it himself, and it sent Fen’Harel into a rage. They were working together to...help the People? Free the slaves? He lead a rebellion, that part is clear. But they learned about the quickening, tried to stop it - and couldn’t? That seems right.” She shrugged, “it was just one moment in time, the last that all the gods - rulers - were together. Some things I just didn’t understand.” She ran her hand through her hair, ruffling it into unruly spikes. “Fen’Harel accused them of causing the quickening, and -” she looked stunned. “None of them denied it. Not a single one! And only the servants in the room were upset when they found out that Mythal had been murdered.” She shook her head. “Anduril attacked him. But as soon as she touched him, there was this green light and she was just...gone.”

“Gone?” Solas asked with a frown.

“He said that he sent her to the Beyond. He sent all of them.” She looked up at Solas. “Would that kill them? Mages as powerful as they all were?”

“No, it would not kill them. But they would never be able to escape. Only Fen’Harel was a Dream Walker.”

Ellana looked suddenly shy, uncertain. “Have you...ever seen them? In your wanderings?”

Solas stepped close, his warm hand cupping her cheek. “I’ve never seen them. Perhaps they exist in a part of the fade beyond my reach. Fen’Harel was much more powerful than I, after all.”

Ellana leaned into his hand seeking comfort, tears stinging her eyes. “The orb is his.”

Solas gasped, but did not move.

“It has to be, doesn’t it? You said yourself that it belonged to one of the old gods. Mythal wasn’t banished, but she is dead. Fen’Harel is the only one left. And we know _he’s_ still alive. It glows green. Like the rifts, like my hand, like his power when he sent the gods to the Beyond.” She paused. “And...in the fade...he fought a demon for us. The Nightmare. But he wasn’t strong enough, it was killing him. I...touched him. With the anchor. And he pulled from it! Not like Corypheus, back in Haven. But actually pulled magic from it. Made it his own. It’s not as powerful, now. Not as bright. What else could it be? Who else has control of the fade like he does?” She sighed. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“You...do not seem upset…” Solas’s voice sounded strangled, and Ellana looked up to see his eyes wide in panic.

“It’s alright,” she said, reaching out to comfort _him_ now. “You’ve never seen him, but he’s not like in the stories. He’s kind, and sad, and so very lonely. I think Corypheus must have stolen the orb from him - there’s no way he would have banished the gods for the people, only to ruin the world like this. It doesn’t make sense.”

_“Vhenan,”_ Solas said, wonder in his voice.

Ellana’s head snapped up. He’d just called her his heart. Even if he wasn’t Dalish, he knew so much of the language, _had_ to know what that word meant to her. There was more to it than a simple pet name. The heart is important to the body. Vital. One cannot live without their heart, not even a single moment. They could hold their breath, go days without eating or drinking. But when the heart stops, there are only seconds before life expires. And if it is removed? Death is instantaneous. No lovers, and few bonded couples, refer to their significant other as _vhenan._ It showed a tremendous weakness. To hold someone’s heart in such a manner, to actually _become_ their heart, outside their body…

Leliana had once told Ellana that love was common. _Vhenan_ was emotion beyond love. It was existence outside oneself; making someone else your world. Their needs, their desires, everything about them would supersede your own. It was losing yourself in another.

“No, no, please!” She said, anxious. “Don’t make me your _vhenan._ I don’t want such power.”

His smile was crooked and sad. “It is not my choice, _vhenan_. You stole my heart when I was not looking. But I cannot find it in me to object. How could I? You hold it so gently, there is only the sweetest of pains.”

“Solas…”

His face hardened. “No. You have no need to return my affections as strongly, or indeed at all. My feelings are my own. _Do not_ feel guilty.”

“No, you don’t understand. I love you, I do! I have for...months.” She bit her lip, trying to contain the other words she did not want to say. _But she was also coming to love the Wolf. A man who was never a man, and had never spoken to her with his voice._

Solas smiled, kissed her sweetly, pulled back and spoke in a whisper, “do you remember when we first spoke of this thing between us? In our shared dream?”

“I remember. You asked for me to wait.”

He chuckled, wrapped his arms around her, kissed the end of her ear. “I told you that I would not begin anything unless I could give you my all. That I would not lie to you about who I was...if we were to…”

She pulled back, fear making her voice sharp, “are you trying to say that you don’t want to be with me? After this? After _vhenan?”_

“No. I am saying that I have been trying to tell you the truth. And I am finally able to tell you the whole of it. Who I am, where I’m from. My name,” he swallowed. “Will you come with me? Somewhere private. I cannot speak of this here.”

Her eyes narrowed and she studied him. He bore it stoically. He might have to endure much worse, should she take this as badly as she had the potential to. But hope made him bold, and he would not back out now.

“How long will this take?” she asked, and his heart sank.

“I...do not know...that depends on you, and me…”

He stepped back, but she snagged her hand in his tunic, keeping him from going too far. “No, my love. Where are we going, how long is it to travel there? I assume that you are looking for somewhere beyond Leliana’s reach.”

He breathed out in relief, gave her a blistering kiss, then moved away completely. “A day’s journey, nothing more. To the grove we found in crestwood.”

Ellana smiled shyly. “All right. Shall we go after lunch? I need time to clear my schedule.”

“As you wish, _ma vhenan.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time. I promise. ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Talk

The journey was made in peaceful quiet, with Ellana casting shy glances at Solas. He was calm, happy, with the lightest of smiles laying across his lips.

 Josephine had grumbled at the Inquisitors refusal to give a time of return, but Ellana held firm. This was to be a serious conversation, one that would likely determine the course of her relationship with Solas. She knew that whatever he had to say would be big, as it was something he had struggled with for nearly half a year. But she had faith in him - in her. Hadn’t she forgiven Blackwall for the things he’d done when he’d been another man? Even if Solas’s secret was as bad, she was sure they could get past it. After all, he worked harder than Blackwall to stop Corypheus.

They left their harts in the cave just beyond the grotto, noses deep in bags of oats hung from their necks. They would be occupied for quite some time.

Solas led her over the stones peeping out of the water, her hand clasped tightly in his. Ellana’s heart swole to bursting. He was freer with his affections than he’d ever been before, his mask dropped completely from his face. Joy radiated from his very being, and he turned to look at her often, as if seeking to share his bliss. He turned, stepping backwards with sure feet over the slick rocks, mischief alight in his eyes. Ellana laughed as he playfully showed off, his balance far superior to hers.

He kissed the tips of her fingers, and dropped her hand, pulling her close as they approached the still pool of water flanked by the giant hart statues.

“Can you feel it?” he asked, voice tinged with nervousness. “The veil is thin here, tingles on the skin.”

Ellana cocked her head, searching for the sensation he described. And once she paid attention - there it was. A light buzzing of energy, dancing along her nerves. “That’s the veil?” she asked, having never been conscious of its presence before.

He laughed, smiling widely. “Yes, the spirits press close. Many lovers have come here to make their vows.”

Ellana blushed, dropping her eyes. “Is that what we are doing here?”

A finger curled under her chin, brought her head back up. “Would you object if we were?” She opened her mouth, but he spoke before she could. “No, no. I am sorry. _Ir abelas._ I should not tease. I have brought you here for another purpose.” He paused, became serious, the light joy draining from his countenance. “Ellana. _Vhenan._ You have been hunted by the Dread Wolf for months now. He joins your dreams nearly every night.” His hands slid down her arms to grip her hands tightly.

Her grasp was equally strong. “Yes, of course. You know this. Why?”

“And you do not fear him anymore? In fact, you believe his story about what happened to the Pantheon?”

His questions were so urgent, so serious, she offered him the answers anew, though he was familiar with them already. “I feared him at first. But he has never threatened me. Has in fact, _defended_ me. So many of our stories are wrong...what’s one more? He has proven himself steadfast and loyal through his actions. I know that he may still betray me at some point in the future, but...could I not say that of us all?”

_“Vhenan,”_ Solas’s eyes shone with gratitude and love. “You do not know what it means to me, to hear those words fall from your lips. But -” he gave her fingers a squeeze and let them go. “You will, very soon.”

“Solas?” she asked as he began to back away. “Where are you going? You’re starting to scare me.”

“Do not worry, _ma vhenan._ My heart, my love. I swear you are in no danger from me. Whatever happens, you are _never_ in any danger from me.”

He backed farther away, and only the knowledge that there was only one exit from this grotto - and he was nowhere near it - kept her from leaping after him. Instead, she curled one hand around her waist, the other came up to rest against the racing pulse at the base of her throat. “Solas? Please, what are you…”

_“Vhenan,_ I love you.” His next words were a plea, a request, almost a beg. “Trust me.”

She swallowed hard, and nodded once.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and _changed._

 

 

-

 

Of all the things he had done in his long life. Of all the wars and lies. All the sacrifices. _This_ was the hardest.

Solas reached for the veil, gossamer as finest lace, and pulled himself into it. A surge in power, a twist, push, and he was back in the physical world in the form it knew him best in. He dulled his power, no snow fell from his coat.

It had been so fast, so effortless, that he’d slipped to and from from the veil before she had even noticed his absence. In her eyes, all she had seen was a rush of green energy, and then a wolf where the man had been. He sat down, curled his tail around his paws, and pricked his ears, waiting for her response.

The hand at the base of her throat crept upwards, her eyes round, mouth open in a soundless gasp. She stared at him for long moments, only the soft flow of water behind him disturbing the peace of the grotto. Her breathing was fast, but not harsh. Her heartbeat elevated, but not panicked. What was she thinking?

He whined, and stretched out towards her, laying on his belly, hips canted to the side, imitating the statues she had cleaned all those months ago. _Please,_ vhenan, _please. Trust me. Do not hate me. Do not run._

“Fen’Harel?” She said eventually, and if his hearing had not been so good, he would have heard nothing at all.

He whined again, trying to comfort her, his nose dipping in both apology and assent.

“Solas...is...Fen’Harel? That is his real name? _You’re_ real name?” He wished he could tell if that was wonder or disgust in her voice.

He rumbled pleasantly in his throat, laid his head on his paws, tried to stare at her as soulfully as he’d seen the mabari pups do.

It made her laugh.

He grumbled, but did not move, beyond a small twitch of his tail.

She sighed and sat down, and he resisted the urge to raise his head. From this height, he was able to look her in the eyes. To move would be to tower over her.

“How is this possible?” she whispered. “Solas is Fen’Harel. It seems like some sort of joke.”

He rolled his head, giving a negative without ever moving his snout.

She watched him with sad eyes. “I had no idea. You really are a trickster. Is anything about Solas true?”

He cried out, heart-pain at the accusation. _It is true that I love you. It is true that I want to help. Solas_ is _me. There is just more to see than the mask._

She crept closer, and he froze. But she kept coming, and he began to breathe again.

“Shhh, shh. It’s alright. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Didn’t I promise that I would trust you? And here I am, breaking it already.” She reached out, fearlessly, and smoothed a hand up his nose to rest atop his broad crown.

He closed his eyes and whuffed out a breath, taking comfort in her touch.

“I didn’t know what you meant, when you said that you’d been trying to tell me the truth. It makes sense now. I thought you were going to say that you had children or that you quit the field of battle, or something. Not...not something _this_ big.”

He peered up at her, anxiously.

She smiled down at him, tears in her eyes. “You always try so hard not to frighten me. It’s almost like you are afraid of _me,_ instead.”

He quivered.

“Oh, _Solas,”_ and she bent down to wrap her arms around him, face pressed to his forehead, arms around his muzzle. So, so close to his teeth. But she didn’t seem to care. “What _happened?_ Why are you so alone? In your memory, you mention having people, ones who are free from slavery. Where are they now? Do none of _them_ remember you as you were?”

The sound that escaped him was soft and broken-hearted, his whole body shook with some nameless emotion.

“Change,” she whispered into his fur. “Change. Change, _please._ I need to talk to you,” she choked on her tears.

He moved, and she let him go. He raised his head, magic swirled, and the man she loved knelt before her.

With a wordless cry, she flung herself at him, and she caught a glimpse of his startled expression. Her arms came around his shoulders, one gripping the back of his neck. She hit him with such force that she drove them to the ground, and he grinned, even as his arms came up to catch her, keep her safe from the tumble. She trembled, and he threaded the fingers of one hand through her hair, massaging her scalp lightly, crooning into her ear.

_“Ir abelas,_ I am sorry. Forgive me, please. Forgive my deception. I did not know...I never expected,” he stopped, unable to find the words.

Ellana smiled, and lifted her head. “They say you have a gilded tongue. That you could talk the crows from their nest, and the squirrel from its stash. And yet, here you are, speechless before me. Maybe _I’m_ the god.”

He grinned crookedly at her, and she thought it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. “You will hear no argument from me.”

She stared down at him, freed one hand to trace the lines of his face. He closed his eyes, leaned into her touch, a sound of deep contentment escaping him.

“Months. You’ve lied for months. A part of me thinks I should be mad.” His eyes snapped open in despair, but she kept talking. “But I can’t be. Oh, I’m a little irritated that you would scare the shit out of me at night, and then be so concerned in the morning.” She gave him a mild glare and his ears flushed a most becoming red. “But mostly I just understand. What were you to do? If you’d told me who you were from the beginning, I would have laughed or been terrified. I never would have trusted you.”

“I did not want to lie,” he began.

“But what else could you possibly do?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know if my plan would work. You were so scared that first night.”

“Oh, I was terrified. That night, and the next, and the next. For weeks I tumbled between terror and confusion.” She threw her head back, her laugh a merry tinkle in the air. “Solas was my only solace from Fen’Harel!”

He chuckled, hands feathering at her side. He grasped, shifted, and laid her gently in the grass beside him. He turned over, braced his head against his hand, and traced the lines of her face with one delicate finger. “I did not lie, when I called you _ma vhenan.”_ There was such love in his gaze that it stole her breath away. “I have never loved another as I love you, and I never will.”

She smiled, captured his hand, pressed a kiss to its center. “How are you here?” she whispered. “Where did you go?”

He became solemn, but the love never dulled from his eyes. “I slept.” He took a deep breath, gathering his words. “After I banished the rest of the Pantheon to the golden city - yes, I was the one that created it, not some absent Maker - I stayed with the people for a time. Trying to help them form a government that didn’t rely on gods. But,” he shook his head, tracing the line of her brow. “They couldn’t do it. For ages beyond their memory, the Pantheon was all that they had. And while my own people did not view me as god, they still looked to me for guidance. For judgements. And even as they slowly took control of the other peoples, they still turned to me. I found myself atop a lonely pillar. He Who Hunts Alone. They needed their gods, desired their gods. I had let the farce go on too long, and they didn’t know how to function without our ever-changing rules. They were just as crippled with the Pantheon’s absence as they had been with its presence. At the time, I could see no other solution but to remove myself from them - force them to govern themselves, as it were.” He looked down, his hand slipping away from her face.

She caught it, tugged, kissed whatever bit of skin on his face she could reach. He turned his head, caught her lips with his, and she could taste his regret, a sour spot on his tongue. He sighed and pulled away.

“I decided to sleep. To banish myself for a thousand years, to allow them to grow without any influence but their own. I did not know of humans. Of their overwhelming will to war. I did not know that a scant hundred years after I went to sleep, that Elvhenan would be overrun by another set of quickling children, far more brutal than the children of stone, who wanted no part of our land of the sky.” He looked up into her eyes, voice urgent. “I did not know! I expected to wake to a world grander than Elvhenan. To find wonders I’d never imagined, a place of peace and prosperity, where all men were equal and slaves to none!”

“That was your dream, when you slept for all those years?” she asked with sympathy.

“Not...dream. There is no fade in _unethara._ But, my hope. Yes.”

Ellana looked down, trying to absorb everything, accept that the words he was telling her now where the whole and final truth. The scar on her hand caught her attention. The anchor; his mark. She flexed her hand, watching the faint tinge of green in her palm shift in the light. “How did Corypheus get your orb?”

He stopped breathing.

She did not look up. Did not ask again. More than what he’d done to the Pantheon, more that his lies about his true identity, _this_ was the question that had the ability to break them.

“I gave it to him.”

Her head snapped up, and she stared at him in horrified disbelief.

“I thought it would kill him.”

Ellana frowned, sat up, ran a hand through her hair.

Solas - Fen’Harel - did the same, his shoulders rounded with misery. “Upon awakening from _unethara,_ the first thing I did was go back to sleep. A true sleep, where I could enter the Beyond. I sought out Wisdom, knowing that it had been gathering knowledge for centuries, and would be willing to share what it knew with me.” A fleeting smile flickered across his face as he studied his hands. “I was too weak to find it. But it sensed my return, though I was greatly diminished, and came to me joyously. We spoke for an eternity, and by the time I awoke the second time, I knew what had happened to the world - how my dream never came to pass.” He sighed, and Ellana heard the heartbreak in the sound.

How must it have felt, she wondered, to wake after a thousand years, to find _this_ was the reality he had fought for. How he must have raged, furious at himself for abandoning his people. What he had thought would save them, force them to independence, had crippled them. Instead of a world full of freemen, his people were outcasts. Servants, or banished wanderers. None with a land of their own.

His head came up, and he stared across the placid water of the grotto. But Ellana knew he saw none of it. “It told me many things. None of which I wished to hear. But Wisdom is not Mercy, and I hadn’t the strength to drive it away. One of the things it spoke of was Corypheus. No more than a year before I awoke, he was freed from his cage by Hawke. Though Wisdom was not aware that he’d been killed in the fight. If it had known...perhaps things may have happened differently.

“I woke, and retrieved my orb from where it lay next to me while I slept. I had been forced to store the greater portion of my power inside of it, to allow me to enter _unethara.”_ He smiled sadly. “We had too much power; our greatest failing. Poisons could not hurt us, age did not touch us. Our connection with the fade was too strong, magic alone sustained us. And my connection was the strongest of all. I literally _could not_ enter _uthenara_ without draining myself. But even then I was too prideful, and could not give it up completely. So I poured it into an object, one I sealed and locked with countless tricks and traps. Layered on top of each other. Even if one somehow stole into my sanctuary while I lay insensate, the unlocking of a single barrier would both kill them with the explosion of power...and revive me with enough magic returned that I could crush whoever managed to survive.

“I picked it up, reached for my magic...and found nothing.”

“Nothing?” Ellana gasped, and Solas turned to look at her, as if surprised to find her still there, listening rapturously.

“A singularly unique experience, I assure you. I had never been without.” He turned away, leaned back, pressed his hands into the grass, and stared up at the sky as it slowly changed from blue to violet. It was barely four o’clock, but the sun set early in the mountains. “It took me weeks to summon the smallest spark, months to cast a proper firespell. And winter, which had always come easiest to me, was the last to return. I needed my power, I could not _stand_ feeling so helpless. I chose the name Solas, for I knew that Fen’Harel was reviled. And pride was all that I had left.

“I still had the Beyond, and it was a great comfort to me as I traveled. Places that had been well-worn and known to me in the past were fresh and new. Ruins built upon ruins, and I caught up on the history of the world in greater detail as I dreamt in abandoned keeps and battlegrounds.

“I heard more and more whispers of Corypheus. The spirits spoke of how he sought a way into the fade - how he had cracked open my wards around the golden city and started the blights.”

“I was wondering about that,” Ellana put in, laying down on the grass beside him to stare up at the sky as well. “If _you_ created the golden city in the fade, if it was the _Creators_ who lived there...how did it turn black? What about that unleashed the blight?”

“I have only one explanation, and it horrifies me.” Solas sighed. “I did not burst into their throne room unprepared. Mythal and I had long since worked out this contingency plan. I created the golden city around the same time that the war with the Forgotten Ones came to its ugly conclusion. Mythal insisted. She was always far better at reading the threads of time than I was. In that, I have no skill. She foresaw a day in which the Pantheon might need to be locked away, for the protection of the People. I hid my people when June declared that the followers of the Forgotten Ones now belonged to the victors. Spoils of war,” Solas’s voice caught on the words,  black, black hate in his tone. He took a breath, held it, then let it out slowly, the tension bleeding from his form as he did so. He continued in a calmer voice, “The Pantheon, all save Mythal, believed I hid my people in the city they could now see in the Beyond. See, but never reach. Incorrect, but I allowed it, as it kept both my people and its _true_ purpose from their gaze.

“I spent centuries crafting it, moulding it. Populating it with memories of peoples and places so detailed that they would never know it from reality. I tied its image to that of the outside world, so that plants would grow, wither, die. Animals would wander past, seasons would turn. I gave them palaces and filled it with servants, crafted from nothing, that they could use or abuse however they wished, harming none. There were endlessly refreshing tables, filled with the finest of foods from all over the empire, things both delicate and divine. Entertainments, plays, artwork, hunting for those that wished. Everything I could think of, all things that sprung from my imagination - and theirs, though they knew not that I watched their dreams - I gave to them. More than they could ever desire.”

“You loved them,” Ellana said softly, laying a hand on his arm.

He looked down at her, grief bright in his eyes. “I love them, still.”

Ellana tugged gently on the inside of his elbow, urging him to lie down next to her. He did, after some time, and she laced their fingers together. They lay for a while, not speaking, giving him space to regain control of his emotions.

“This is pure speculation, you must understand. They were furious, but still quite sane, when I left them for _uthenara.”_ He paused. “I believe that they went mad. Why, I cannot be sure. Perhaps it was the lack of any true company beyond their own. Perhaps it was the removal of their servants, how stripped they were of the power over others they were so familiar with. Perhaps, despite all my careful precautions, they grew bored.

“But it cannot be denied that something warped inside of them. The walls are painted with blood, screams echo along empty corridors. Ghostly battles that rage endlessly shimmer amongst the pillars and gardens. The expended their magic with deadly force over and over again, killing each other, killing themselves. I only spent a few minutes there myself, and came away so shaken…” he shook his head. “It is an evil place now. And if not for the grand importance it has gained amongst the peoples of the world, I would have torn it down years ago. If Corypheus and his magesters walked its halls...if they tasted its food and drank its wine...then they took the madness of the Pantheon into themselves.”

Ellana knew she should be shocked. This was so much information - Truth beyond anything she had ever known. Legends from so many peoples, their core facts laid bare. The Golden City of the Maker, blackened by the hubris of man; nothing more than a gilded prison for elvhen who thought themselves gods. Crafted from the fade by a powerful Dreamer - and nothing more. This was too much, too much. She could not handle it, and this was far beyond anything she had imagined. But her question, the important one...she needed to know. “And the orb?”

Solas closed his eyes. “My greatest sin. I thought myself clever. Hadn’t I already saved the world once from gods gone mad? Even if the elvhen had not created the world I wished, at least they were not subjected to the Pantheon anymore. I thought to do the same to Corypheus. But I could not simply banish him to the Beyond as I had the Pantheon. I lacked the power, and he had walked out of it alive before. I sought him out, a supplicant to his growing power. I offered him the orb, told him of its promise of power. It was obvious I was not strong enough to use it myself - but my new god could use it to breach the heavens. True lies, all of them. I expected him to crack the first seal, but also that it would take him a long time.

“He took it greedily, feeling the pulse of power buried deep inside. He turned his attentions towards it, forsaking his other plans, giving me time to gather the remnants of power to myself. I planned for two eventualities. First, he would break the first seal, killing himself and all his followers in the process. Thus, removing them as a potential problem for the world. Second, he would _not_ open it, and I would return with enough mana to do so myself, and end him by my own hand.”

“Either way, he ceased to be an issue.”

“Yes.”

Ellana moved his arm up, curling into his side, her head on his shoulder, arm draped across his chest. He made a soft sound of contentment and pulled her closer.

She said nothing about how wrong he was. How Corypheus had managed to do more than just break the first seal. How he had used the death of the Divine to crack it like an egg, spilling all his power at once, grafting the anchor into her hand and tearing a hole into the sky. He’d made so many mistakes, so many misguided actions. She was furious with him - so very, very angry. But she also did not see how he could have foreseen the result of his actions.. He banished the Pantheon to save the people, banished _himself_ to force their independence. It was not his fault that they had failed to make use of his gifts.

As for Corypheus...

Pride was indeed a good name for him. It had been pride that had caused him to give the orb to the ancient magister, pride that had left it in his grasp so long. His mistake was almost unforgivable. He had made a decision. A terrible, horrible decision, and had lied about it for years. If not directly to her, then to the world. But he had also spent that time working tirelessly to correct his mistake. He gave her as much truth as he was able, and set things up to give her even more.

He sacrificed and bled. He exhausted himself healing the wounded. He went out into the field often, the first to rise in the morning and the last to sleep at night. He ordered more books than Dorian, and scoured their contents for knowledge.

Perhaps she was blinded by love for him. Perhaps he told his tale too well. But she believed him. She forgave him.

He tensed against her, his whole body going rigid. But before she could even think to speak, the green energy of the fade rose up around him, and he was gone from the circle of her arms.

“Solas?” she cried, sitting up in alarm, looking at the patch of crushed grass where he had lain. _“Solas?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. So. Lots of headcanon going on here.
> 
> Also...cliffhanger? *scuttles away*


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel runs, Solas wakes, Feynriel meets a person of importance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Sunflower, who called it. I'm very impressed!

The Dread Wolf raced through the unformed dreams of the Beyond, passing through territories staked out by powerful spirits, nothing but a blur. Never before in his very long life had he ever moved this fast. Miles passed with each bounding leap he took as he used his power to compress the distances, allowing him to travel far without effort. But he had hundreds of miles to go, and only seconds to get there. It would not be enough.

 _“Fen’Harel!”_ the anguished cry came again, and he would have snarled had he possessed the breath. It was just like Wisdom, calling for him to save it. But it was no spirit, but _Feynriel_ who cried out in despair. Something had happened in Tevinter. Something that put his young student in mortal danger - and Fen’Harel could not ignore the call for help.

After long minutes - to long, much too long, far, _far_ too long - Fen’Harel found the place where the cry originated. A small hole in the veil. Too small for spirits to slide through, but quite large enough for Feynriel to scream.

Without a pause, quick as a thought, Fen’Harel pushed himself through, sealing the gap behind him, and found himself crouched in a gilded room, the once impressive murals soaked in blood.

The room was filled with more than thirty mages, arranged in five concentric circles, facing outwards, their staffs at the ready, spells trembling on their lips. At the center, bound hand and foot, Feynriel screamed as a venatori agent took pliers to his fingernails.

“Call him!” another agent demanded. “Call for your god!” he brought a hammer down on one of Feynriel’s feet, crushing it into pulp.

Fen’Harel, outside the circle and crouched in the shadows, let out an impressive growl and the whole room turned as one to face him. As soon as he had them distracted, he stepped forward through the fade, reappeared at Feynriel’s side, and laid his snout gently across the boy’s exposed torso. Tugging at the veil, he brought the boy with him bodily into the Beyond, and into the waiting arms of a spirit of Compassion, who immediately began to make use of the healing supplies Fen’Harel conjured for it.

He returned to the room, stepping back into the exact place he had left it - the middle of the room, facing the table to which they had bound his friend. They were still turning to look where he had gone. He growled, deep and slow, then stepped back into the Beyond to avoid the barrage of spells sent his way. Reappearing at the edge of the room, he watched as the spells continued past where he had been, to the agents on the other side of the circle. It was interesting to see what they had cast.

Some agents began to scream as their blood caught fire, other were crushed under a ton of rock. Still others were bound by a purple band of energy reminiscent of the Nightmare that seemed to suck the very life from their bones. The first three rings of agents went down under the barrage, and while the others looked on in horror, Fen’Harel began his attack.

He ripped into them, claws and teeth flashing, his growls echoing around the walls of the room. He was merciless, forgoing artistry for speed, his only concession to defense a paper thin skin of the Beyond lying along the outline of his fur, absorbing the brunt of the attacks. Mages were not hand-to-hand warriors, for all that most of them had blades affixed to the ends of their staves, and they whistled harmlessly about his head and ears as he crushed their skulls with his teeth.

Every whirl of movement, every flash of his claws, sent eddies of snow swirling about the room. Once he had earned a little space, Fen’Harel paused just long enough to throw his head back and howl, the roar of a blizzard answering his call. Wind whipped through the room, ice formed on the ceiling, and the visibility dropped to zero. Flashes of lighting cut through the white, drawn to the metal of buckles and buttons. Screams rose up, and the stone under his paws grew slick with blood. Within minutes, it was all over.

Panting with effort, Fen’Harel allowed the wind and snow to die, pricking his ears at the sound of footsteps. Three young mages - venatori acolytes? - clustered in the doorway, too frightened to enter the room. They stared around with wide eyes, taking in the destruction he had wrought so easily. He drew himself up, and their eyes fixed on him, equal parts awe and terror.

“Fen’Harel,” one of them whispered. “He came.”

Between one breath and the next, the Dread Wolf faded away.

 

-

 

Back in the Beyond, Fen’Harel shifted to his elvhen form, kneeling beside the broken young man. “How is he?” he asked Compassion, unwilling to interrupt its work.

“Dying.”

Fen’Harel nodded, held out his hands, and called upon healing energies, determined to guarantee the young man’s survival. It took hours, relative to the physical world, and some small part of himself fretted about abandoning his _vhenan_ as he had. But the need had been great, and he was sure that she was physically fine. Certain to be furious with him, but safe at least.

Between the two of them, Feynriel slowly stabilized, though he remained mostly incoherent from the pain. Fen’Harel pulled his hands away, exhausted as he sat back on his heels. He’d had to expend a large amount of magic to heal Feynriel, and was finding it hard to summon enough energy and control to absorb what he needed from the fade. He managed to pull just enough to shift back to wolf form, a cart and harness appearing on and around him. Compassion lifted Feynriel carefully, arranging Feynriel’s limbs or optimum comfort and security.

“Go quickly,” Compassion told him, and faded away.

The return trip took much longer than the initial one did. Partially for care of his charge, and partly from fatigue. Fen’Harel hadn’t the energy to zip through territories, and was forced to pick his way the long way around. Even so, they made it back to the glen in about fifteen minutes. He stood, for several long moments, gathering his energy for the next shift through the veil. Behind him, Feynriel groaned his way to consciousness.

“Fen’Harel?” he asked, words groggy with pain.

The Great Wolf grunted in acknowledgment, and _pushed,_ willing the boy, the cart, and himself all to manifest in the physical world. He was shuddering with the need for sleep, but still possessed enough awareness to give a sharp bark to cover Ellana’s startled yelp of his chosen name. He looked at her with pleading eyes, and she nodded her head, swallowing her anger - for the moment.

“Fen’Harel,” she said instead, moving towards them.

He woofed, and looked pointedly behind him, and Ellana stepped to the side and peered at the battered youth groaning on the cart. “Fhendis!” she cursed, then spun on her heel and ran to gather the harts. But they would only get so close with the Great Wolf nearby, and she looked at Fen’Harel helplessly. “You’ll have to shift back, they won’t come any closer.”

He nodded, and tried, but yelped in pain. He’d pushed too hard, too fast. He couldn’t make the shift without damaging himself or the veil. He hung his head, closing his eyes.

A touch on his shoulder, and Ellana leaned against him softly. “Hey, it will be fine. I’m sure you’re just tired, right? Looks like you saved his life.” She pulled back and studied the straps crisscrossing his body. “How about I unhook you, and you go stand back a ways. Then they’ll come closer and I can hitch one of them up.”

He grunted tiredly, and stood still as she undid them. She smoothed his fur down with care, and he soaked in her motions with gratitude. He was so _tired._ Once he was free, he moved away, lacking even the energy to give himself a good shake. He moved as far away as he could and stood, facing the wall, on trembling legs. He knew that it would be best if he could manage to lay down - that would calm the harts more than his simple inattention. But he also knew that, should he do so, he might not get up for hours. And there was still the trek to Skyhold to be made.

He had no idea what he would say to Feynriel. Or Ellana.

He heard her speaking softly. Urging one of the harts closer, soothing it as she hitched it up, speaking to Feynriel in gentle tones.

“We’re done here. Fen’Harel?”

He turned.

“Do you want to lead, or shall I?” She was seated on the saddle-less back of her hart, the leading reigns of the other clasped in her fist.

Pride told him to have her go first, to follow and guard. But he was in no shape to do either, and the harts would feel safer if they could at least see him. So he took a deep breath, braced himself, and struck out at a painful lope for Skyhold.

They were only halfway there when Ellana called for a rest. She could see how hard Solas was pushing himself. He desperately needed to lay down and sleep - possibly for a month. But Feynriel was in bad shape in the cart and needed medical care fast. He was only just barely stable.  

She got down off her hart, commanded the pair of them to _wait,_ and walked up to where the Dread Wolf quivered in exhaustion, his tongue lolling out of his tongue as he took great gasps of air. “It’s magical fatigue, isn’t it?” She asked him softly, hand on his cheek.

The sound he produced was somewhere between a grunt and a whine.

“All right. If I give you a zap, think you can manage to shift back?”

He paused to think about it, then nodded his head once, sharply.

She moved around to his side, placed one hand on his shoulder, one on his hip, and poured as much unformed magic into him as she dared. His shivering slowed to a stop, and he turned his head, swiping his tongue up the length of her arm.

“Oh. Oh that is _gross,”_ she objected, wiping her spit-covered arm on his fur. His tired eyes were full of mischief when she looked at him.

He took two steps away, shimmered with green light, and was _finally_ once again a man. She never thought to be so happy to see his bald head. He staggered forward, and she caught him around his ribs.

“Whoa, hey there. Take it easy.” She draped his arm across her shoulders and between the two of them managed to get him to the top of a nearby boulder. His skin was clammy and pale, his eyes growing more unfocused. She snapped her fingers in front of his face, and he revived somewhat.

She jumped down off the boulder, glad to see him sag but not fall, and hopped back up on her hart. Clicking her tongue softly, she walked it up to the side of the boulder, and Solas slid gratefully onto its back, his head coming to rest against her shoulder.

They took off at a brisk trot, and while Solas’s bones objected to the bouncing, he was grateful nonetheless, for it kept him awake enough to speak. “Feynriel. Dream Walker. Heard his call...through the fade...venatori.”

“Venatori? I thought we’d kicked them out of Orlais.”

“You did. Tevinter.”

She tried to twist, to look at him incredulously, but he objected to the movement, clasping his arms harder around her waist and burying his face in her shoulderblades. She settled for placing one hand on his arm. “You went all the way to Tevinter, freed Feynriel, healed him, and brought him back in...three hours? Fendhis, but you’re amazing.”

Solas grunted. “Knows my first name, not my second. Look different. Don’t let him talk.”

“I promise. You’ll get first crack at him - with me there, of course.”

He smiled against her, as he slipped away into the fade. “Of course.”

 

-

 

Solas awoke all at once, his heart pounding in his chest. It took him several long moments to place his surroundings, and in that time he scraped about for his magic, the well that once had run dry. He found it, pulsing painfully, overused and abused, but undoubtedly _there_ and that fact alone eased his fear.

He finally recognized the room as the personal quarters of the Inquisitor, and he wondered what had possessed her to haul his unconscious form up all those stairs. He sat up gingerly. Physically, his body was fine. But _inside,_ where his magic dwelled, he was scraped raw. It would take him at least a week to overcome this. Magic was drawn to magic, and mana regenerated faster when there was still something left inside. But he had drained it all, even the portion Ellana had poured into him, to shift back into a man, to stay conscious long enough to speak to her. Given how little had managed to return to him, it had probably been a full day.

He saw the lyrium bottles placed conspicuously next to the bed, and he traced a finger down their sides, listening to their songs. When he found a new one, he picked it up, intending to add it to his collection. He did not, _would not,_ drink lyrium. But he would honor those whose essences had gone into making it.

He was heading on unsteady feet towards the stairs when the door at the bottom opened and quick feet beat him to the top. He slipped the bottle into his pocket.

“Oh!”

It was the Inquisitor, a tray of hot food balanced in her hands. He stared at it hungrily. If he would not give it lyrium, his body demanded food in its stead.

She smiled kindly, and walked over to her desk, where she set the tray upon the papers scattered on its surface. She watched, but did not help, as he made his way slowly over to her. He was grateful for the concession to his pride. He settled onto the chair with a soft groan, and picked up the piece of bread, so fresh it must have just come from the ovens. It burned his hands and mouth as he tore into it, but he did not care.

Ellana perched on the edge of her desk, one leg upon its surface, the other braced upon the ground. “Let me tell you what I’ve manage to figure out, and you correct me.”

He nodded rudely around his mouthful of food.

“You said the veil is thin in that grotto. So even though you weren’t in the fade, you still heard Feynriel calling for help. The doctors say that he was tortured badly, possibly for hours. So it’s either you didn’t hear him because it took that long for the call to cross the distance from Tevinter to Orlais, or he held out that long before...responding. Yes?”

Solas considered as he chewed. He hadn’t put any thought into it, but it seemed a logical conclusion. “Likely,” he told her. “But I do not know for certain.”

She accepted his answer and continued. “He knows you, your original name,” she skirted the bounds of saying it and he was grateful, “but not this one, or...even that you’re here?”

He nodded encouragement, and took a bite of hard cheese as she continued.

“So you’ve probably been teaching him, trying to get him to lose his fear like you did with me. And it must have worked, if he was willing to call to you for help.”

“I hope you are right.”

She flashed him a smile. “So now, all we need to do is get him to agree to keep your name a secret.” She studied Solas intently for a moment. “How does he treat you?”

Solas understood what she was asking. “He does not call me _hahren,_ but it is a near thing. I have spent months teaching him to fade walk, and he is learning fast. He is an eagle, and has taken to dropping stones upon my head.”

Ellana chuckled. “I would pay to see that.”

“Perhaps, one day, you will.” Solas sat back, his stomach blessedly full, the tray of food empty but for crumbs. “Thank you, _vhenan._ For trusting me. For believing me. For taking care of me.”

She smiled and reached out to trace the lines of his face with her hand. “It was my pleasure.”

He reached up and caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. He stared up at her, and they shared a quiet moment.

He waited as long as he could, but was pressed to ask, “has he spoken?”

Ellana shook her head, pulling her hand away to sit up straight. “Not yet.” She paused. “I didn’t know what you wanted to say. How you wanted to explain his appearance, bloody and broken. I dropped him off with the healers and came up here with you. I’ve been avoiding everyone for almost two days now. The good news is that I didn’t even have to ask the healers to keep him sedated. They say he will likely lose the foot. And they have no way to restore his fingernails.”

Solas sighed, and scrubbed his face with a hand. “I suppose I should simply be thankful that he is alive.” He looked down, considering. “We will make it known that I am a Dream Walker. I never meant to keep it a secret, I simply saw no cause to announce it. Given that Feynriel is a known Dream Walker, that will explain the connection. As for his appearance...we can say he escaped, and was fleeing the Venatori. A small cell, overlooked. I can set up a decoy for your spymaster to find later. He got close, no more than a few miles, and I heard him through the fade. We raced out to find him mostly unconscious, deep in the woods.” He shook his head. “This is risky. I will not be able to set up a believable venatori nest for quite some time. Perhaps a month. And by then it will be too late. Leliana’s people will have combed the forest, found no evidence of Feynriel’s flight _or_ of the Venatori. The others will believe the story, but not your spymaster.”

“Must we keep it from her at all?”

Solas hesitated. “It is...dangerous...to admit to being able to walk freely through the fade. This is how the blights began, after all. Mortals walking physically through the Beyond.”

“I understand that. But as you said, you cannot make the lie believable to her. And having her doubt us is just as bad as providing no explanation at all.”

He nodded slowly, coming to terms with it. “You are correct. I wish it was not so, but…” he sighed. “We must speak to her before we go to Feynriel. I wish I had reached him faster.”

Ellana slipped from the desk to kneel at his side, reaching up to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “You saved his life. The healers could tell what you’d managed to heal before you got him into that cart. A massive concussion, a ruptured eye, internal bleeding - they say his organs were probably like soup. They’re only badly bruised, now.” She shook her head, nuzzling into his arm. “You are truly amazing.”

“Thank you, _vhenan._ Your words soothe me.” Solas raised his arm, and laid it across her shoulders. With her kneeling, and the arm of the chair in the way, it was awkward.

Ellana loved it all the same.

“I’ll go summon Leliana. The sooner we speak to her, the better.”

Solas nodded, and Ellana tromped down the stairs, returning minutes later with the spymaster in tow. Ellana perched on the arm of Solas’s chair, an arm around his shoulder for balance, and Leliana stood before the two of them, arms folded casually behind her back.

“I am sorry, Leliana. But we have another secret for you to hold.” Ellana began softly.

The Nightingale straightened, her feet locking into place. “Do not trouble yourself about me. It is my duty. I will hold whatever you say in highest confidence.”

A smile fluttered on the Inquisitor’s lips. “I know you will.” She turned to the Dream Walker at her side. “Solas?”

He nodded. “It is my secret, spymaster, that I ask you to carry.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It concerns Feynriel, and how I managed to save him.” Solas paused, but all Leliana did was nod. “You know that I am a Dream Walker, what the Tevinter call a somniari. It is not something we have told any but the inner circle. It is not something you need continue to hide, but the precursor to the more dangerous truth.” He drew himself up, as tall and regal in the Inquisitor’s chair as a king. “Ellana is not the only person to walk physically in the fade and survive. It is a skill that all Dreamers possess, even if they know it not. I have spent countless hours in the Beyond, both physically and asleep.”

Leliana drew in a sharp breath, but held her silence.

“We, the Inquisitor and I, were in a place where the veil is thin. I am a strong Dreamer, and though he was in Tevinter, I heard Feynriel’s call for help clearly. I abandoned her,” Ellana made a sound of protest, but Solas continued on, “and went into the fade. I ran, as fast as I am able, and rescued him from the Venatori that were torturing him. I pulled him into the fade with me - he is a Dreamer as well - before killing the ones who held him captive. I brought him back to the Inquisitor, healed him with my remaining energy, and we retreated to Skyhold.”

Silence fell, as Leliana absorbed the impact of his words.

“You walk in the fade? Physically, and with no ill-intent?” Leliana clarified.

“Often, and with no repercussions. I have never attempted to breach the black city, nor do I desire to. Distances are shorter in the fade; I use it to travel. And now, to rescue a friend. That is all.”

Leliana nodded and began to pace back and forth, thoughts whirling in her head. “We cannot tell the people this. They will panic.”

“I agree,” the Inquisitor said. “Perhaps we could claim that he was somewhere closer? That Solas heard the call and we ran in to save him?”

Leliana nodded. “Perhaps. Where did you go?”

“The grotto in Crestwood,” Solas said. “With the hart statues.”

“I know the place.” Leliana waved her hand as she spoke. “There is an old, abandoned hut not far from there, hidden behind a stand of trees and brush. There are skeletons there, left over from when the undead attacked. I can have my people burn it to the ground and claim that as the place where you found Feynriel.”

Ellana breathed out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Leliana. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

Leliana smiled, soft and fleeting, but honest. “It is my duty. And I am glad to help. Though,” she turned to Solas, a twinkle in her eye. “Your game is up now, Dream Walker. I know how you keep slipping through my net.”

Solas nodded. “Yes.”

Leliana took in Solas’s drooping form and excused herself to go organize the coverup.

Ellana looked down at Solas, ran a tender hand along his head. “Are you still up for visiting Feynriel? Or would you like to sleep a little more? The healers said he might wake within the next half hour, but I can have them give him a sleeping tonic while you rest. I know you didn’t drink that bottle of lyrium.” She traced its outline against his pocket.

Solas sighed, but did not address her statement. They’d had this argument before. “I would like to see him, if he is recovered enough. The sooner he is made aware of the situation, the better.”

Ellana nodded and stood, moving across the room to retrieve his staff from where it was propped up against the wall with her own. He accepted it with embarrassment. He hadn’t even noticed it was there. He was more tired than he thought.

“You are too good to me,” he told her with gratitude.

She laughed and moved down the steps before him, glancing up often to check on his slow downward progress. “Don’t say that just yet. I have about a million questions for you.”

“I will answer them as best as I am able. But I do not know everything.”

Her eyes grew wide, and her hand fluttered to her chest. They reached the end of the interminably long stairs, and Ellana flung the door open enthusiastically. “Varric!” she called across the Great Hall.

“Yeah, boss?” the dwarf came trotting up.

“Mark this day upon our calendar!” Ellana demanded imperiously, and Solas let out a pained groan. She ignored him regally. “Solas has just stated that he does not know everything. Make it a holiday throughout Thedas!”

Varric’s grin went wide and wicked, “you got it.” He turned and left at a brisk walk.

Solas stepped through the door and closed it gently behind him. “How you torture me so.”

Ellana stepped close to him, close enough that he could steady himself on her should he need to. She matched her pace to his slow shuffle. “I thought I was too good to you?”

“I take it back,” Solas said sourly, unable to hide the laughter in his tone. “I take all of it back. You are a horrid creature, _vhenan._ One full of malice and spite.” He spoke low and quiet, her ears only. _Vhenan_ was a private secret between them, they both agreed. Not to be shared with others. Not for shame, but for the quiet thrill of new love, found and shared.

“It is true,” she said mournfully.

They made their way slowly down the Great Hall, Solas’s face schooled into a blank mask to hide how badly he wished to simply lay down and sleep upon the floor. He was not recovered enough to march down to the infirmary. But he would do it anyway.

When they passed Varric at the fireplace, he was most assuredly scribbling in his pocket calendar. He looked up with a grin as they passed. “Good to see you up and about, Chuckles. We were worried about you.”

“I am grateful for your concern, Master Tethras.”

Varric shook his head. “Always so formal. How do you stand it, boss?”

Ellana shrugged as they moved slowly along. “I find it charming.”

Varric scoffed, but lapsed into silence, letting them pass the rest of the way in peace.

It was good that they had half an hour to make it down to the infirmary, for it took every bit of it for Solas to make it that far. Had Skyhold always had so many blasted _stairs?_  Perhaps he could convince the Inquisitor to knock them down and replace them with ramps.

Feynriel was awake when they made it down, speaking softly to the healer, and Solas’s heart jumped to his throat when the young somniari looked at him, recognition kindling in his eyes. But the lad simply returned his attention to the healer, and accepted a pain potion from her hands, downing it quickly.

“Inquisitor,” the healer said softly, passing Ellana and Solas where they hovered near the door. “Don’t tire him overmuch.”

“Promise,” Ellana responded with a smile, and the healer slipped away. “C’mon,” she said to Solas, sliding an unwanted - but desperately needed - hand under his arm, guiding him to the chair set up beside Feynriel’s bed.

Solas reached for his magic instinctively, to set up the privacy wards. But hissed in displeasure as the power bucked against his command. He shook his head to clear it, then glanced up at Ellana where she stood next to his chair. _“Ir abelas,_ my love. But my magic...would you set the wards?”

She nodded, pressing her marked hand against his shoulder, and the ghost of his power was enough to soothe some of the burn in his mind. “Of course.”

Solas looked at Feynriel, as Ellana secured their privacy. The lad’s eyes were the size of saucers.

 _“My love?_ ” he mouthed at Solas, incredulity in every line of his body.

Solas nodded, “I have been with the Inquisition since the breach was formed. Trying to find a way to stop it. And after, Corypheus.”

Feynriel’s eyes flicked to the Inquisitor, and Solas was proud of the boy’s discretion. Solas waited for the wards to snap into place before speaking. “She knows the truth of who I am.” He paused, trying to determine exactly how much to say. “She is the only one, and I must insist that it remain that way. We have devised a lie to cover the fade walking I had to do to retrieve you from Tevinter. We will say that you were being held in a hut not far from where Ellana and I were. I heard your call, and we answered.”

Feynriel began to shake, but when Solas laid his hand on the boy’s arm, the lad’s other hand snatched out, gripping the Wolf’s hand fiercely. “Where?” he asked, and Solas understood that this was a main source of the boy’s fear.

“Skyhold. Orlais. The seat of the Inquisition’s power, and far beyond the reach of those that hurt you.” he assured Feynriel, his touch firm and his eyes sincere.

Understanding struck, and Feynriel’s eyes snapped to Ellana.

Solas chuckled. “May I introduce you to Ellana Lavellan. Keeper of my heart, and Herald of Andraste.” He paused. “And this is Feynriel…” he trailed off, allowing the boy the opportunity to fill in.

“Sabrae,” Feynriel supplied softly.

“Feynriel Sabrae. Half-blooded elf and remarkably strong Dream Walker. I have been his tutor for months.” Solas’s eyes grew wicked. “Ever since he interrupted us in Haven.”

Ellana snorted, while Feynriel looked on in confusion. She waved his look of inquiry away. “Welcome, Feynriel. You may stay as long as you like - or leave right away, if you so desire. Though I suggest waiting at least until all your wounds are healed. You were at death’s door when Solas brought you to me.”

Feynriel listened intently, his eyes cutting to the bald mage - Solas? Really? - when the Inquisitor said his name.

“You do not have to join the Inquisition. Nor are you required to do anything to earn your keep. All we ask is that you respect Solas’s request for privacy and keep any personal details you know of him to yourself. He is Solas here. Fade-expert and Mystic advisor. Nothing more.” The Inquisitor - dear Creators, Fen’Harel and the leader of the Inquisition were in a relationship - finished speaking and laced her hands together in front of her body, waiting patiently for Feynriel to speak.

Feynriel swallowed, and nodded.

Ellana poured him a glass of water from a pitcher nearby and handed it to Feynriel, who sipped from it greatfully. She frowned, “is he always this quiet?” she mumbled to Solas.

“No. I suspect it is the shock.” Solas frowned, knowing that he dare not push Feynriel for any information about how he had been captured. Not now, perhaps not ever. He decided to address another issue, one that would be much easier for young man to deal with. “Just treat me as any other man,” he told Feynriel.

Feynriel’s eyebrows went up doubtfully.

Ellana slouched over Solas’s shoulders, rubbing her hand across the other mage’s bald head in rough affection. “No, really,” she assured Feynriel cheekily, while Solas adopted a sulky attitude. They played a game, trying to set Feynriel at ease. “No one else knows, so they insult him all the time. Sera tried to steal his breaches and got pink hair as a result.” Ellana craned her head down to look at the top of Solas’s head. “I think she liked the pink, actually. Not much of a deterrent.”

Solas sighed gustily. “Her sense of fashion is horrid.”

“Says the man who wanders around in wolf pelts. Scraggy hobo,” Ellana teased. “Not exactly subtle, dear.”

Feynriel laughed weakly, and Solas and Ellana shared a satisfied look.

Abruptly serious, Solas pulled free of Ellana’s touch, and bowed his head to Feynriel. “I owe you an apology. _Ir abelas,_ my friend. I should have made it to you faster. It pains me to see how much you suffered on my account.”

Feynriel shuddered, took another sip of his water, and spoke. “You warned me about the Venatori. I heard whispers that they would be approaching my Master soon. I thought I could find out more about them for you. You said their leader was your enemy. I never thought my Master would tell them about you. He’d always kept you a secret before.”

“Nevertheless, I am sorry.”

So much had happened to Feyrniel in so short a time. Taken from his master’s house in the night, tortured by agents of the Elder God, whoever that was, told over and over to call for Fen’Harel until his mind almost snapped. He shuddered, unwilling to think of it. His memory went hazy after that, and he was unsure how he had been saved. All he knew was that the man he knew as Fen’Harel was sitting _physically_ at his bedside, looking drawn as Feynriel had never seen. And he was in the heart of Orlais. He latched onto the easiest thing he could handle. “Your hair?” he asked, gesturing at Solas’s shining crown.

Ellana looked down at Solas. “What about his hair?”

Solas grimaced. “I use is a low-level consistency spell to keep it from growing.”

“You mean you’re not bald?” Ellana asked in excitement.

“No. It is a choice.”

“It’s...interesting,” Feynriel said with as much tact as he could muster.

Solas’s eyes twinkled, and that more than anything caused Feynriel to relax. Fen’Harel was serious - usually. But there was an air of mischief about him that he’d never attempted to suppress while they were in the fade. He’d known the part about pink hair before had been an act crafted to comfort him, but this was _true_ emotion from the bald man before him, and in it he saw the Wolf he had come to trust.

“What you mean to say,” Fen’Harel - _Solas,_ Feynriel reminded himself - said silkily, “is that I look like a ragged, unkempt, hermit apostate with no two coppers to rub together.”

Feynriel thought about that for a brief moment, then broke out into a wide grin. “I mean to say,” he acknowledged.

Ellana snorted. “He’ll fit in here just fine. Sera will love him.”

Solas groaned.

“Sorry Feynriel, Solas. But I need to get going. I’m sure Josie has a list of things longer than I am tall that desperately need my attention,” the Inquisitor said.

Solas shifted in the chair to get to his feet, but Feynriel’s hand shot out, grabbing onto Fen’Harel and tightening to the point of pain.

“Fen - Solas! Don’t leave,” Feynriel bit his lip, to keep from spewing his fears. “Please. I...have questions.”

Solas’s face softened, and he shared a look with the Inquisitor. She nodded, brushed the top of Solas’s head with a kiss, and left with a casual wave and a, “catch you two later!” The privacy wards popped as she stepped through the door.

The two men stared at each other. Feynriel with acute attention, as he tried to find the differences between this man’s fade form and his physical one. Solas, with as much patience as he could muster, being studied so closely. Silence reigned, until Solas gently freed his hand from Feynriel’s tight grip.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Feynriel said, flushing to the roots of his hair. “I didn’t realize…”

“Do not concern yourself,” Solas told him mildly, flexing his fingers to regain feeling.

An awkward pause. They both knew that there wasn’t much that could be said, since all the things either of them wished to discuss could only be said behind wards neither of them were in position to place. And Feynriel didn’t want to admit that he was afraid of being alone. Solas was kind enough to feign ignorance.

Feynriel grinned. “You look like shit.”

“Such language you speak,” Solas said mildly, relaxing back into his chair. “It is on your behalf.”

Feynriel nodded painfully. “I am grateful.”

Solas waved his words away. “You owe me nothing, Feynriel. My strength will recover.” He looked at the bandaged hands of the young somniari. “It will take time, you understand. But when I am restored, I will do my best to speed your healing. You _will_ be whole again.”

Feynriel swallowed thickly and looked away.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor and Solas fight, Fen'Harel and Ellana flirt, Feynriel is healed.

It was a slow recovery for both Solas and Feynriel, until Ellana casually noted that Solas looked slightly better after she touched him. She teased him about it, until he abashedly admitted that it was the anchor on her hand - his power - that soothed the ragged edges of his mind.

The ensuing argument grew heated and though neither of them shouted, they drew a crowd. Both were purposefully vague, but the onlookers understood enough to know that Ellana was offering to help Solas, and he was being stubborn about refusing it.

“You _need_ it,” Solas insisted for what felt like the fifth time. “I will recover in time, and then I can help Feynriel.”

“And in the mean time, he is told by the healers that they will probably be taking his foot - or even leg! - and suffering through needless agony. If you would just let me _help you,_ then your mana would recover, you could heal Feynriel, and all this suffering could be over with!” Ellana threw her hands in the air.

“Ellana.” Solas gritted his teeth against the words he wanted to say. Fought for calm. “Please trust me on this. You need as much power at your disposal as you possibly can get. You cannot afford to squander even the smallest part on something that will be corrected through time alone.”

“Solas-” Ellana began again, but cut off when Solas took two quick steps forward, wrapped his arm around her waist, and spoke directly into her ear. His words were so soft, she had to hold her breath to hear them.

“I told you before, the Breach is not sealed. And the anchor is just powerful enough - _barely_ \- to open and close it properly. If I take any more power from it - any at all! - it may not be enough on its own.”

She pulled back, looked him calmly in the eyes. “Then you’ll just have to help like you do with the rifts.”

He stared at her, stunned, and she smiled, placing her hand on his cheek.

“You thought I didn’t know? I am familiar with your power, Solas. I know you’ve been guiding me since the first. _And_ I know that you followed me to the Emerald Graves, somehow,” her words were without infliction, though he knew that she understood the truth of ‘how’, “and helped me with _those_ rifts as well. Will the Breach really be so different?” The last was a true question, she would defer to his judgement on the matter, trust that he would not use his knowledge to falsely win the argument.

He bowed his head. “No. You are right. If I help, if I…” he trailed off, unwilling to voice the thought, though she could see his features shifting rapidly as he considered and then discarded various plans. His face settled, and he nodded. “Yes. It can be done.”

“Good.” Ellana took his right hand in her left, pressing her anchor against his skin, and she could feel his hunger for its power through his grip. “Move along now, people. Show’s over.” Ellana announced, and the crowd slowly dispersed.

Varric and the Iron Bull, standing by the tavern, watched the couple walk away hand-in-hand.

“That was the most civilized argument I’ve ever seen,” Varric noted.

“Yeah.”

 

-

 

The couple retreated to the Inquisitor’s room, the one place Leliana swore not to search for secrets. Halfway up the stairs, Ellana began to laugh so hard tears began to stream down her cheeks.

“Ellana?” Solas asked in alarm. _“Vhenan?_ What is it?”

But she could only shake her head, gasping for breath, her face the color of a tomato. Solas huffed, but wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her up the rest of the stairs. She gulped air like a fish, and finally managed to spit out a few words.

“You helped - me clean - the statues!” she crowed.

He froze, her eyes fixed on his face through the tears. He turned sheepish. “Well, it seemed appropriate, at the time.”

He lost his grip on her as her knees buckled and she slithered to the floor.

Solas studied the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, Leader of the Faithful….as she threw her head back and howled like a madwoman. Then he settled on the floor in front of her to wait.

 

-

 

“I didn’t know this was possible,” Ellana said, as Solas rubbed his thumbs over the mark on her hand, feeling him pull threads of power free. “Corypheus said the anchor was permanent.”

Solas _scoffed._ “Corypheus is neither as powerful, nor as skilled as he believes. He cracked the orb, true. But it is not open completely. And he is not its true master.”

“Have you always been able to do this?” she asked.

“Not always, no. And there is still a large portion of the anchor’s power that is beyond my reach. But it is changing. With every rift we close, Corypheus’ influence over it weakens, and I gain access to more of it.”

“Then why have you not done this? Before Adamant, I mean. Aren’t you trying to recover as much of your power as you can?”

Solas leaned back and looked at her, still massaging her hand, but no longer pulling on the mark. “I am. But I am attempting to be wise about it. I have not gone after the eluvians, nor have I drained the artifacts that strengthen the veil.”

“Of _course_ you created those, too.” Ellana grumped.

Solas laughed. “I feared that the Pantheon might find a way to escape while I slept, so I designed something to hold them back.”

“Is there anything you _don’t_ have a hand in?” Ellana despaired.

“Of course. I have nothing to do with the statutes or architecture that remain. All of the buildings and item crafting were done by June. Ghilan’nain really _did_ create fantastic beasts - the gryphon is one - and that is something I could _never_ manage. Mythal, as I said, could read the threads of fate. A skill that still terrifies me. And when Sylaise and Andruil worked together, the items that came out of their metalsmithing were fantastic to behold. A few of them still exist, luckily locked away beyond the reach of casual adventurers.” He reached up with one hand, tracing the lines of the vallaslin along her cheek. “Please do not let this change your perception of me. I am no wiser than the next man. Rather, it is very likely that I am far more foolish. I may have age and experience, but they have not gotten me far.”

Ellana sighed and nodded. “I understand. It’s just going to be a little difficult. This is quite the shift.”

Solas nodded, and offered her a hand up. “Would you like to come with me? I believe it is time to take care of Feynriel.”

“I’d love to. But I can’t. I have some things to go over in the war room,” she said reluctantly. “In fact, I might not see you for a few days. Work has been piling up. Josie wants me to go to Val Royeaux with her and Viviene for….I forget what.”

“I understand. You are the Inquisitor. Your life is not your own.” He turned to leave, intent on allowing her to work.

But she caught his arm, and before he had finished turning back towards her, she had thrown her arms about his shoulders, kissing him hungrily. He growled low in his throat, and wrapped one arm firmly around her waist, the other threading into the short strands of her hair. The thumb of that hand reached out to trace the line of her ear, while his tongue begged entrance to her mouth. She opened for him with a whimper, and he slid his tongue into her mouth with filthy promise.

He tore his mouth away, breath hot against her ear. “One day, very soon, I will make love to you the way you deserve.”

“Yes, please.”

He chuckled, kissed his way back to her mouth, and curled his hand down to grab a handful of her ass, pushing her against him. She writhed, and his eyes almost crossed at the sensation. _“Vhenan,_ what you do to me.” He pulled away, slid his hands back into safer territories, and buried his face in her neck, just breathing.

She turned her head to the side, and bit his ear.

He grunted, and turned so that it was outside her reach.

She made a sound of pure annoyance, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “Weren’t you the one who said that you had work to do?” he asked, pure innocence.

“Yeah, but not when you kiss me like that,” she objected.

He laughed and kissed her lightly, pulling away before she had a chance to deepen it again. “I simply do not want you to forget me while you are away.”

“That’s...not something you need to worry about,” she assured him.

“Even so. One likes to be thorough.” He punctuated the last word with a gentle tug of her ear with his teeth.

“Dread Wolf take you-” she cut off, suddenly realizing what she was saying.

His lips quivered with the grin he was trying to suppress.

Her gaze turned sly. “Dread Wolf take _me.”_

“Oh, _vhenan._ I assure you, _he will.”_

 

 

-

 

Cole was sitting with Feynriel, when Solas finally made it to the young man’s bedside.

“Solas!” Compassion cried, full of glad welcome.

Feynriel laughed, a lighter, freer sound than any he’d made since he’d been rescued from the Venatori, and Solas knew that Cole had made him forget.

“Did you ask, first?” he asked the spirit.

“I did. I offered other ways, but he said that he didn’t _want_ to remember. He’s happier, now.”

“He did ask, and I am happier. Cole left me with just enough that I know the ghost of what happened, but it's not detailed enough to cause fear.” Feynriel assured him, a relaxed smile upon his lips.

“Very well,” Solas said, settling himself in the chair at Feynriel’s bedside, while Cole vanished, only to reappear balanced on the foot of Feynriel’s bed in a precarious crouch. “You wish to watch?” he asked Cole, as he began to ready his magic.

“Can I?” Cole asked, pleased.

“I do not mind,” Solas assured him. “Feynriel?”

“You’re going to heal me?” Feynriel asked, voice full of cautious hope. At Solas’s distracted nod, he continued. “I don’t care if the whole castle is here, so long as the pain is gone.”

Solas stretched out his hands, one over Feynriel’s torso, one over his feet, and explored with gentle tendrils of energy. “Ah,” he said after a moment, a look of satisfaction on his face. “This is what the healers were missing. I suspected as much.”

“What?”

“The hammer was cursed.” At Feynriel’s sharp intake of breath, he rushed on, “Do not worry. I know the counter. You will walk on your foot again.”

So saying, Solas gave up on his awareness of his body, settling deep into the bones of his patient. The curse was a particularly malicious one, wrapping each of the tiny bones in Feynriel’s foot in a miniscule glyph that repelled magic and kept the bones from knitting. First, Solas would have to carefully dismantle each tiny glyph, and only then would he be free to heal Feynriel’s foot. This would take hours.

 

-

 

When he emerged from the healing, Solas discovered much to his dismay, that not only _had_ hours passed, but the Inquisitor had left Skyhold with Josephine while he’d been otherwise occupied. He’d known it a possibility, but his heart sank just the same. He’d wanted to kiss her goodbye. Solas shook his head, amused despite himself. What a lovesick fool he was. She would be back in two, perhaps three days. He could live that long without her presence.

Feynriel stood to his feet and took a few shaking steps forward, not quite trusting them, even after the hours of work Solas had poured into them. The Wolf followed, watching with gentle amusement as Feynriel made it to the door and left the healer’s hut under his own power. He dashed a few feet out into the yard and stopped, his toes curling into the grass. A small cheer went up at his appearance, and Feynriel’s smile widened into a grin.

“You did that?” Cassandra asked, stepping up beside Solas where he lounged in the doorway, her eyes trained on the young somniari, who had begun an impromptu dance party with a few of the hardier patients lounging in the sun.

“With some help, yes.”

“The healers said it would have to be removed.” Cassandra’s tone was not accusing, but factually dry. Solas understood what she was asking.

“The hammer was cursed, it laid small glyphs on his bones. The healers likely had never encountered it before, and did not know to look.” He shrugged. “I did. I will show them, later.”

“Solas-” Cassandra turned to face him fully, body tense as if for battle.

Solas straightened in the doorway, his hands dropping with deceptive casualness to his side.

“I owe you an apology,” Cassandra said forcefully. “I misjudged you in the beginning, the same way I misjudged the Inquisitor. You have done nearly as much as she to aid the inquisition, and I still held your motives suspect for months. It has been obvious for some time that you are only here to help, but I have been a stubborn fool.”

The edges of Solas’s lips curled up in a smile. “You owe me nothing, Seeker. You have every right to suspect. Though,” he held up a hand to forestall her next words, “if you truly wish for my forgiveness, you have it.”

Cassandra blew out a breath, her battle stance relaxing. “Thank you. You are more gracious than I feared. I mean-”

“Seeker. I understand.”

“Right. Yes.” A faint blush crept across her cheeks. “I’ll just go.”

 

-

 

“It’s _amazing.”_

Solas looked up from where he was studying the shard, an amused smile upon his face. “Why, thank you.”

Feynriel had made it no farther than the doorway from the stairwell before he’d gotten distracted by the fresco Solas had painted on the wall. His nose was almost pressed to the plaster, he studied it so closely. “It’s...humming?” He turned his head to the side, pressed his cheek to it, and closed his eyes. “It’s almost like the fade.” He turned to face Solas, who watched the whole thing with an indulgent smile. “What is it?”

Solas crossed his arms, then gestured with one of them with a sweeping motion that encompassed both Feynriel and the room at large, before tucking the hand away again. “What do you think?”

“Now is that any way to treat the lad?” Dorian said mildly as he stepped into the room behind Feynriel.

Solas simply ignored him, raising his eyebrows at Feynriel expectantly.

Dorian and Solas watched with twin emotions of amusement as Feynriel turned back to the wall eagerly. He traced the patterns with his finger, poked it with a nail, stretched his arms out as wide as he could and pressed his whole body against it as if trying to hug the wall. Dorian began to chuckle immediately, but it wasn't until Feynriel actually _licked_ it, that Solas let out a full-bodied laugh.

Feynriel obviously didn’t realize how unusual an occurrence it was, or he would have responded more like Dorian: jaw open, eyes wide, tongue wagging silently. At Solas’s quiet snicker, Dorian’s mouth snapped shut, and one finger rose to point imperiously at the elf. “What - what was that!”

Feynriel turned to look, but all he saw was Dorian pointing at Solas, while the Wolf looked at Feynriel expectantly. He turned back to the wall.

“Oh, no. You won’t get away that easily.” Dorian moved into Solas’s line of vision. “What was that, that laugh?”

“You’ve never heard him laugh before?” Feynriel asked, probing the wall with magic. “He laughs at me all the time.”

“Oh, I’ve heard him laugh, but it’s always more of a cackle. Usually aimed at our enemies. But that was,” Dorian turned sly. “That was positively _handsome._ I didn’t know your voice was so deep.” He slid a little closer to the elf, who shot him an annoyed glance, even as he shifted to the side to get Feynriel back within view. “You should laugh more often,” Dorian purred.

Solas regally ignored him, addressing Feynriel. “What do you see?”

Feynriel turned, caught sight of the way Dorian was hovering seductively over the Dread Wolf...who was so unmoved as to be laughable. “They really do treat you like any other man,” he said in awe.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Solas said blankly, while Dorian turned sharp eyes on the young man.

Feynriel gulped. He should have kept his mouth shut. “Because you’re such a powerful somniari?”

Approval glittered in Fen’Harel’s eyes, and Feynriel breathed.

“You’re a _what?”_ Dorian said, jumping backwards comically.

“A Dream Walker,” Solas said, with exaggerated patience. “Don’t pretend ignorance, Dorian.”

“You really _are_ no fun. I don’t understand what our illustrious leader sees in you,” Dorian pouted.

“Neither do I,” Solas whispered, though both men heard him.

Dorian took his leave shortly after, and as soon as the door closed, a barrier bloomed around them. Feynriel turned and looked at Fen’Harel, remorse in his eyes.

“I’m sor-”

Solas cut him off with a gesture. “Do not be concerned. It was never a secret from the inner circle. And soon the rest will know, to explain your presence. No, I have something more important to tell you.” Solas stepped closer, his voice dropping low and urgent. “There is a woman here with her child. Morrigan is the mother, Kieran the child. Neither are to be trusted, but Kieran most of all. I do not know how, but he is the spirit of one of the old gods, given life again as a boy.”

"A _Tevinter_ old god? As in, one of the archdemons of the blight?” Feynriel squeaked, eyes wide.

Solas shrugged. “Or you could call him one of the Elvhen Forgotten Ones. But, yes. He is not blighted; his mind is his own. Nevertheless, I do not trust him. I do not _recognize_ him.” He paused, “it has been a great many years, but once upon a time I called all of them kin. But I cannot figure which one he is, and that disturbs me. Keep away from him - all children, if you must - and I will find you in the fade tonight. You must learn how to defend your thoughts, or your unguarded mind might give things away.”

Feynriel nodded, then paused as a thought struck him. “What about the Inquisitor?”

Solas’s grin was sharp. “The Dread Wolf has granted her his protection.”

 

-

 

He met her in the fade as a man, sneaking up behind her to wrap her in his arms. She laughed as he picked her up and spun her around, her head thrown back to rest on his shoulder.

“Solas!” she cried with joy. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He smiled, kissed her neck, spun her around in his arms. “Have you, _ma vhenan?_ How terrible of me to keep you waiting.”

She grinned, throwing her arms around his shoulders, and he pulled her to him, relishing the feel of her in his arms.

“Thank you,” she told his shoulder, breath warm through the fabric, “for coming to me.”

“I will always come for you.”

She paused, then _melted,_ and he had to readjust his grip as she went boneless in his arms. “What...are you doing?” he asked, fumbling to keep her upright as her knees buckled, and the tops of her feet dragged against the grass.

“I’m swooning,” she told him, her matter of fact tone belying her limp state.

 _How ridiculous,_ he thought, hiding a grin. As if she would ever do something so delicate as a swoon.

“Indeed. My apologies. I should have realized.” He knelt in the grass, then toppled over, bringing her with him until she lay sprawled atop him. She hummed, shifted, and slung a leg over one of his, trapping him.

They lay for a moment, she with her eyes closed still in her ‘swoon’, and he staring up at the trees he conjured for her, tracing ridiculously sappy things in El’vhen’an along the skin of her arm.

“I never thought you’d be like this,” she told him, after a while.

“Hm?”

She turned her head, propped her chin on his chest to look at him, taking in the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. “This,” she said. “Cuddly. Romantic. Sweet.”

He grunted, pinched her arm lightly, and she objected by swatting him.

“I’m serious!” she told him. “You’re so somber all the time, grim and fatalistic. I didn’t think you knew how to do anything but smirk. Then you changed out Josephine’s ink.”

Solas rolled one eye down to peer at her. “Slander.”

“Not if its true,” she scoffed.

“Solas would never do such a thing. He is an uptight bore, who only talks about the fade and the things he’s seen there,” he sniffed.

“And Fen’Harel?” Ellana asked slyly.

“Ah, well _he_ doesn't know how to be serious at all. Always chasing foxes and bedding women. Not a sensible bone in his body.”

“Then who does that make you?” Ellana mused, turning her head to nuzzle against him again. “Fen’Solas?”

He snorted, and rolled them so that he hovered over her, a mock frown etched firmly upon his face. “Wolf-pride?” he asked her incredulously.

“Better than Dread Wolf!”

“Ah,” he said, dropping soft, chaste kisses upon her cheeks and nose. “But ‘Harel’ did not mean ‘dread’ until that day.”

She blinked, reached up, and smoothed a thumb along the crease of his forehead until his frown melted away. “You did the right thing,” she told him. “You were merciful. Gave them a marvelous home where they should have been content. You could have killed them, but you didn’t.”

“I know,” he told her softly. “But I still left the People with no god, and no defense against the quickening.”

“Can you undo it?” she asked, with little hope.

“I am...unsure. First, I would have to bring the magic back to the People - once, we were all mages - and then…” he shook his head, traced the line of her ear with a thumb. She hummed encouragingly, to both his motions and words. “There is a fundamental difference between one of the elvhen, and the elves. I am no researcher. Unless it is to do with the Beyond, I am woefully unskilled.”

“That is _not_ true!” she objected vehemently. “You can heal better than anyone I know - you healed Feynriel’s foot! - and you’ve mastered all the elements so easily.”

He shook his head, scooted down her body, and laid his head upon her stomach, listening to her breathe. She reached down and traced absent patterns on his scalp. “I seem skilled in healing because I remember what has been forgotten. But, I assure you, I have _no_ talent in the matter. I am barely better than a battlefield surgeon was in the days of Elvhenan. Feynriel is lucky that I remembered the technique for searching out the glyphs. If it had been any _other_ delicate problem, he really would have lost his foot.

“As far as elemental magic,” he shrugged, and she felt it in her bones. “I have had years to learn the different types. Your fire glyphs are cleaner than mine are - faster. Your electricity never touches our allies. You will notice I don’t use it unless it is a ring to contain our enemies? I haven’t your fine control and run the risk of electrocuting a friend.”

“Huh,” she said, considering his words. “I never realized, but you’re right.” She grinned, “you’re terrible with Storm!”

“Indeed,” he said dryly. “Back to the original topic: I am no researcher, and my skills in magic are woefully singular. It would be easier if I could study another elvhen, now that the quickening of the People has stabilized, but I know of no other besides myself.”

“Ah,” she said, her voice going sad. “I had wondered about that. It seemed likely but,” she chewed on her lip, turning her head away as she felt him lift his head off her stomach to look at her. “Well. You’ll outlive me.”

“Ellana.” His surprising use of her given name had her turning back to him. He stared at her with intense eyes, then laid his head back down and began to speak. “I was not sure how to tell you this. It has taken me this long just to notice, really. It is such a subtle thing - it took me months just to see that something was off, and even then I was not sure. How could I be? This is so much different than anything I ever imagined...”

“Solas.”

He turned his face into her stomach, braced his arms on either side of her body like a hug and just breathed. “I cannot be completely sure, you must understand. I still do not know exactly what Elgar’nan and Dirthamen did. The quickening was so subtle, so slow. And we had never seen its like before. They died of old age without ever becoming wizened. It wasn’t until it had been going on for three generations that we realized it was not some strange new disease brought up from the depths of the earth by the children of the stone. By then, almost every elvhen had become infected. Even my own people.” He took a deep breath, nuzzling into her stomach. She ran a soothing hand down his head and neck.

“Just tell me, love.”

"Time is different, for me. I seem to get lost in thought so often because everyone else is moving so _fast_. Were I to move at my natural speed, the rhythm my body wishes to live by, I would speak much slower, move with more deliberate motion. A single meal would take hours. The ball at the Winter Palace that seemed so long to you was the very height of comfort to me. For me to live at the pace of the shemlin is exhausting, I am always at a run.” He paused. “I have noticed, over the last several months, that you are beginning to slow.”

Her breath stuttered in her chest as she absorbed the import of his words.

“How?” she asked, her words no more than a whisper.

“The only thing I can imagine is the power in your hand. But I do not know how it would spur such a change. But I can _feel_ it in you, see it in your deliberations. The rest believe that you are simply adopting my mannerisms, my habit of thinking long and hard before speaking. I suppose, from a certain point of view, they are right.”

“I’m...immortal?”

He smiled against her. “Rather say that you are becoming long-lived. A blade will still slay you just as easily. Disease and famine have not lost their sway. Time is the only thing that has loosened its grip.”

“Solas…” She tugged on this ears, and he followed the motion, lifting his head to look her in the eyes. “What do I do?”

“Whatever you wish. You will simply have more time to do it in. I...hope I have not distressed you. Such was not my intention.” His face was concerned, and he crawled back up her body to drop a chaste kiss on her lips, before moving to lay at her side.

She followed him with dazed eyes. “You said you did not have another elvhen to study…”

“And I do not. Yet. However the process started, it has not completed itself. It has taken months for your time to slow enough for me to notice, how much longer will it take for it to halt completely? I cannot say. I dug through the archives of Dirthamen’s temple, once I saw what was happening. But, as before, I found nothing. My brother really did take his most important secret to his grave.”

Her face became a mask of anguish. “I’m going to outlive _everyone.”_

“Not everyone,” Solas said softly, dropping his eyes. “No, not everyone. And I am sorry if it is selfish of me, but I find myself glad of it.”

_“Vhenan.”_

Solas’s head snapped up in shock. Never had she said that word to him. Never had he expected her to. How could she place her heart in his care, after all he had done to the ones he had loved best in Elvhenan?

She reached out to him, love fierce in her expression, and rolled atop him, pinning him gently to the ground, forcing his face up, so he could not turn away. He braced his hands on her hips, and did not even try. “Fen’Harel. Solas. Keeper of my Heart. If this anchor has given me you, given me the life to live with you throughout the ages, then I am glad of it as well. I will be sad when each of our friends fade, but I am _joyous_ at the thought of living with you forever. _Never_ doubt that, or me, _vhenan.”_

He had no words - what could he possibly say? So he slid one hand into her hair and pulled her gently down, kissing her with all the emotions he could not seem to speak. Devotion. Love. Joy. He never thought to find his heart inside another, and knew that there was no one who wanted him to carry theirs. But this woman, fighting with all her might for a world that looked down upon everything that she was... _she_ was the one who should be revered as a goddess. And he, her first supplicant.

She pulled away, stared down at him with such love, and he felt his heart swell with the same. He reached up, traced the lines of the _vallaslin_ upon her face. He _ached_ to take them from her, to free her from the shackles that they represented. She was no slave, but was marked as such, and she was so much _better_ than Elgar’nan ever deserved. She should wear no markings but her own.

“What is it?” she asked, aware of where his gaze rested.

He followed the line along her chin, tracing the column of her throat as he spoke, “I remember you told me that you wish you had not gotten the _vallaslin._ That you would not now, if given the choice.”

Her gaze darkened with memory. “Yes. Elgar’nan does not deserve my devotion.”

Solas smiled fleetingly, “he never did.” A pause. “I know a spell. If you like, when you return, I can remove the _vallaslin.”_

“There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

He sighed, dropped his gaze, and she laid down atop him, curling into his chest. “You always see through me. Yes. There is more. The _vallaslin_ was used to by slave owners to mark their property. To honor their chosen god.”

Ellana barked a sharp laugh. “Of course. We’ve messed up so many things about our history. Why not this, too?”

“I am sorry. I did not say it to hurt you.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I asked. And I had already made my decision when you offered. Yes. Take the _vallaslin_ from me when I return. I would be free of Elgar’nan.”

He rubbed a hand soothingly up and down her back, feeling the tension slowly bleed from her form. Spirits of love and devotion, drawn by their emotions, floated through the quiet glen Solas had created. He welcomed them with soft pulses of power, and then let them be. Their dream passed slowly in quiet comfort.


	14. Chapter14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas is a stern taskmaster, Ellana returns, and the Temple of Mythal is explored.

Solas took advantage of the fact that he was finally in the same physical space as Feynriel to teach him the ways a somniari could affect the fade from the waking world. At first, he had attempted to hold the lessons in the rotunda. But that idea quickly faded as the doorways and second level filled up with mages, each fighting for space to watch a somniari at work.

" _Must_ you stand so close?” Solas snapped in annoyance to an apprentice who’d crept forward.

“Leave the lad alone, Solas,” Dorian drawled from where he was sprawled on Solas’s settee. “We’re all terribly curious. You may be the only master somniari in the entire world, and they’ve just learned that they’ve been sharing the hold with you for _months_. And more than that, you’re about to give lessons!”

“Not to them,” Solas scowled, as the room and balcony rapidly filled with eager faces.

“Of course not. But you’ve never spoken of your abilities. And now you’re going to _explain_ them. Why wouldn’t we want to watch?” Dorian replied, unruffled by Solas’s bad mood.

Solas looked at Feynriel, who just shrugged helplessly.

Solas gave a very put-upon sigh. “Oh, very well. Dorian, go speak to the Commander. Ask him if we might make use of the training yard. With this many gawkers, we will need as much space as we can get.”

A light cheer went up and Dorian bounced to his feet, his cheery smile a perfect counterpart to Solas’s scowl. The mages slowly filtered out of the room, heading for the training yard.

Feynriel slid up to Solas to whisper, “are you really upset about teaching them?”

“I simply do not like being gawked at. Being an apostate leads one to hide from attention as much as possible. Having so many eyes upon me is unnerving.”

Feynriel stared at him in shock for a long moment, so used to thinking of this man as Fen’Harel, he had forgotten that Solas was an apostate who had spent his whole life hiding from templars. “Of course. I forgot.”

Solas smiled in understanding and patted Feynriel on the arm as the two of them left the room.

When they reached the training yard, Solas stopped dead in dismay. Every mage, _every_ mage, had turned out for the lesson. The tranquil. Morrigan. Vivienne surely would have attended as well, if she hadn’t been off with the Inquisitor. There were hundreds of them.

Feynriel let out a low whistle, “wow. I get it now.”

Solas shook his head in wonder, “I intend to pretend that they are not there. I suggest you do the same.”

True to his word, Solas ignored the assembled magic users, seemingly without effort. The only concession he made to their presence was a spell that boosted their voices so that all could hear them.

Solas turned to Feynriel, “take up your staff.”

Feynriel did so, gripping it uncomfortably. It was a loaner, pulled from the stores of the mage tower. It was for apprentices, not yet used to managing their gifts. His staff, of course, had not made the journey from Tevinter.

Solas frowned, “that is your staff? That will not do. Use mine.”

A ripple went through the crowd as Solas exchanged his much higher quality staff with Feynriel’s. No mage would ever give up their staff willingly, much less allow another to use it. Solas, utterly unconcerned with their opinions, slung Feynriel’s staff on his back casually.

“Go ahead,” he told the young man, “cast a few spells. Get used to it.”

There were a few training dummies set off to the side, and Feynriel cast a few frost spells at them. Nothing strong enough to damage them, just trying to get a feel for how the magic flowed through Solas’s staff. After a few minutes, he turned back to Solas.

“What...your staff is different. It’s like it pulls on my magic.”

Solas stepped forward. “It would. You know that each staff attunes itself to how its user casts their spells?”

Feynriel nodded.

“I have used this one for months, and it has tuned to the offensive magic of a Dreamer. It wants to be used in such a fashion. A mage who was not a somniari would not feel the pull.” Solas placed his hand over Feynriel’s, channeling his magic through both.

Feynriel gasped, as did the crowd, but Solas did not stop.

“Focus,” he told the young man., _“feel_ the veil.”

Feynriel, knowing that tone of voice, did as he was bid, seeking out through the staff, following the flow of Fen’Harel’s energy. Once he understood, he gasped. “It has holes!”

The crowd erupted in fear, but Solas’s spell allowed them to hear Fen’Harel’s chuckle despite the uproar. “No, Feynriel. The veil does not have _holes._ Be more mindful of your words. What you are sensing is a spirit. Several, in fact. They press up against the veil, watching. Like a hand against glass, you can see them as if the veil was not there. But it _is_ whole.” Solas did not so much as look at the crowd, but they settled at his words. “Now,” he said, stepping away from Feynriel. “What type of spirit are they?”

Without Solas’s magic guiding him, Feynriel struggled to see the veil with such clarity. “I can’t...I don’t even know how many there are.”

“Reach for the veil. Do not pierce it, else you will sleep. Press against it as they do.” Solas instructed, hands folded calmly behind his back.

Feynriel frowned and, clinging to the staff with one hand, he stretched out his other, as if he could touch the veil. Solas huffed, but allowed the motion as the somniari was using physical motions to focus his mind. Feynriel made little patting motions against the air, as if searching for something.

“There are...two? Three?” Feynriel guessed.

“How many?” Solas asked silkily.

“Uh…” Feynriel peeked at Solas, who’s face gave nothing away. “Three.”

“Four,” Solas said, and Feynriel groaned.

“Where’s the fourth?”

Solas gestured beside him, and Feynriel’s eyes went wide as he suddenly saw Cole. He whipped his head around to the crowd, but they simply watched.

“They can’t-” he began, but Solas cut him off.

“Do not concern yourself with them, Feynriel. Focus on the Beyond. There are four spirits. What are they?”

Feynriel did his best to block out the mages. “Compassion...Curiosity...another Compassion...and is that...knowledge?”

“It would call itself Wisdom.”

“Wisdom,” Feynriel said, his face clearing. “Yes.” He cocked his head to the side. “Is that Mischief who just arrived?”

Solas gave him a brilliant smile, “very good!”

“What are they here for?” Feynriel asked.

Solas shrugged, “to follow their natures. Now. Reach through the veil, between the spirits if you please, and grab a piece of the Beyond.”

Feynriel’s eyes widened, “won’t I fall asleep?”

“It is very likely.”

Feynriel scowled at him, and moved to lay down.

“Stand.”

“But!”

“Stand, Feynriel. If you are upright, you will fight the urge to sleep more, to avoid injury.”

“And if I actually hurt myself?” Feynriel demanded.

“Pain is a great motivator.”

Feynriel grumbled curses at Solas, but did as instructed. He braced the staff against the ground, spread his feet shoulder width apart, and reached for the fade. He blinked, and was standing amongst the spirits, who began to laugh. Especially Mischief. “I’m asleep, aren’t I?” he grumbled.

“You are,” Mischief giggled.

Feynriel sighed and withdrew. “Ow.” He stared up at the sky, the back of his head throbbing with his heartbeat.

“Again, Feynriel.”

Feynriel got back up, braced _both_ hands on the staff, and tried again. This time, his transition was even faster, though now his forehead throbbed in pain. “Am I just supposed to go back and forth fast enough to keep from falling?” he grumped, groaning to his feet.

“No. You are to bring a part of the fade back with you. Regular spells pierce the veil enough to allow some of the nature of the Beyond to leak into this world, where the mage then uses their will to shape that essence. They do consciously _here_ , what you can do consciously _there_. Now you must combine the two. Pierce the veil like a mage, and shape the fade like a somniari. Pull what you control back through the veil as the mage pulls the magic.”

Solas demonstrated, the motion fluid and practiced. He reached out, his magic slipping through the veil with the ease of thought, and his consciousness did not waver as he shaped a stone fist and brought it across. It hovered in the air for a moment, before settling gently on the ground.

The crowd murmured in excitement.

Feynriel, watching intently, tried again. The ground was no more forgiving the third time. _“Fendhis!_ What am I doing wrong?”

“Reach with your magic, not your mind.”

“They’re the same thing!” Feynriel objected.

“As it happens, they are not. Again.”

“Fe-”

 _“Again.”_ Fen’Harel’s eyes glittered.

Feynriel swallowed. “Yes, _hahren.”_

And he tried again.

 

-

 

It was a grueling three days, and Feynriel was never happier than when the Inquisitor finally returned, giving Fen’Harel something - some _one_ \- else to focus on. The Wolf was subdued, compared to everyone else Feyrniel had ever seen greet a returning lover. But the tender way he smiled, the gentle hand on the Inquisitor’s back, spoke of a depth of feeling that made Feynriel embarrassed to watch.

“Sickening, aren’t they?” Dorian asked, coming up to stand next to Feynriel.

“A little bit,” Feynriel said, blushing and turning away as the Inquisitor whispered something in Fen’Harel’s ear that caused the Wolf’s eyes to shine.

“I never thought to see the day,” Dorian mused. “Solas is always so stoic. He makes the Lady Herald happy though, that much is plain to see.”

“I’m just happy he’s going to be with her for a while. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.” Feynriel groaned and stretched, unaware of how Dorian’s eyes followed the movement appreciatively.

“He has pushed you rather hard, hasn’t he? Is he always like that?”

Feynriel sighed in satisfaction and dropped his arms. “Yes and no. He’s always been demanding. But in the fade, it’s so much easier. I didn’t _realize_ it was, though, until a few days ago. I didn’t even know you could _do_ some of these things with the fade. How he figured them out is beyond me.”

“Oh?” Dorian's tone was suspiciously bland.

But Feynriel had learned his lesson. “Apostate, right? Neither circle nor Dalish trained. And while some of these things he could have learned from spirits, certainly they couldn’t have taught him _all_ of it. Especially the parts that involve manipulating the fade from here.”

“Hm. You make a good point.”

The Inquisitor laughed, dancing backwards away from Solas. From this distance, they could not make out what was being said, but the taunting tone of voice was clear. Fen’Harel’s lips twitched, but he held back the laugh. Feynriel couldn’t decide which was more impressive: the way the Wolf was unashamedly besotted with the Inquisitor, or the way she trusted him enough to love him.

The Wolf darted forward, catching the Inquisitor around her waist, lifting her up and twirling her around once before putting her down. Face red with laugher, she kissed his cheek, then allowed herself to be pulled away by the Ambassador. Fen’Harel watched her go, gaze warm. Then, he turned and headed up the stairs into the Great Hall.

“Absolutely disgusting,” Dorian said in a tone that implied it was anything but. “Where’s Bull when you need him?”

 

-

 

“Do you still want me to remove your _vallaslin?”_ Solas asked that evening, as the Inquisitor settled on her bed next to him to talk. It was something he desperately wished to do, but he knew how important it was to her - to the Dalish, and to her clan. A rite of passage into adulthood.

“I do,” she said with a firm nod. A thought crossed her face, and she asked, “is there a _vallaslin_ for Fen’Harel?”

He recoiled, almost violently, an instinctual gesture he could not control, and only her quick grab of his tunic kept him from tumbling backwards off the bed. “No!” he barked out, utterly horrified.

She smiled in understanding, and he relaxed.

 _“Ir abelas,_ I did not mean to react so.” He took a breath, steadying his emotions. “No. There is no _vallaslin_ for Fen’Harel. Each of the Pantheon designed their marks, imprinted them upon their supplicants as they turned from citizens to worshipers. I refused to rise to godhood, refused to make a _vallaslin_. I did not _own_ the people I ruled. I was a king, a judge, nothing more. When June claimed the followers of Geldaruan as his slaves, it was a natural progression to mark _them_ as well. For he’d already made slaves of his own people, stripped them of their will so subtly that they did not realize that everything they did was for _his_ benefit and glory. When I began my rebellion against the Pantheon, I was alone. Mythal did not join until much later, though I believe she always intended to. _She_ is the reason the black city exists, after all.

"I had to be cunning. I developed a spell to free the slaves, remove the _vallaslin_ and the underlying compulsion to _serve_ , and hid them amongst my people. When I banished the Pantheon, my people were the only ones who were not used to their every action being dictated by the markings upon their face. I taught everyone I could how to remove the _vallaslin,_ and sent them out amongst the other Peoples. Freeing everyone would be the work of several lifetimes, but I knew it could be done.”

“Your people are barefaced.” Ellana said with sudden clarity. “They stepped up to lead the ones who had been stripped of the will to govern themselves. That’s why you disapprove of Sera so much.”

Solas nodded miserably. “She is so far removed from what she should be. She should be guiding the slaves to freedom, teaching them their song and language again, helping them stand tall and proud. Instead, she shuns anything that is too ‘elfy’ and scoffs when I try to teach her how to affect real _change_ with the Red Jennies.” He sighed, “and yet, for all that, she is correct. I tried rebellion once. I removed those in power, and left a vacuum in its place. Is it any wonder that they dissolved into infighting?” He shook his head. “Tevinter did not cause the collapse of Elvhenan. The People warred with themselves until they were weak and foolish as children. When the humans arrived, they were already broken, and easily conquered. My people had held together the best, put up the strongest fight, and were made slaves for the first time. The rest scattered before they could be captured.”

“The Dalish,” Ellana said, horrified. “That is why they kept the markings. They did not see it as slavery, perhaps they were even _proud_ to be given to a god. And the compulsion to _serve_ would have existed so long as the Pantheon was alive,” she checked his face, looking for confirmation of her theory. He nodded, eyes tight. “So they marked their children with whatever god they chose, until the marking and the serving became a cause all its own. By the time the gods died in earnest, it was a tradition with no meaning.”

“Yes,” Solas said.

“Take it away, Fen’Harel. Free me from Elgar’nan. I will serve no god.” Ellana stared into his eyes with power and conviction, bold and sure in her decision.

 _“Ma nuvenin,”_ He whispered to her, _as you wish_ , and raised his hands to her face.

He spread his fingers, blue light glowing from his palms, and she closed her eyes. He swept his hands slowly from her chin, up, past her mouth to her cheeks and nose, a slow and steady pressure with his magic under the surface of her skin, flowing with the movements of his hands. He slid past her eyes and up over her brow, the magic dissipating as he continued the motion naturally across her ears. She opened her eyes, trepidation hidden in their depths, and he knew that she worried about what she looked like to him now.

 _“Ar las mala revas._ You are free.” He paused, stared at her, so she could be certain of his next words. “And you are so _beautiful.”_

She smiled with relief and he leaned down to kiss her, soft and gentle, assuring her of his continuing affection. He traced a hand along her flank and to her behind, enjoying the feel of her, but not searching for anything more. Simply enjoying the permission to touch.

But she surged against him at the contact, her hands coming up with restless energy to smooth over his chest and down to his stomach, his muscles tightening at the sensation. Her kisses shifted from sweet to hungry, and he felt an answering stir of motion deep in his belly. He pulled back, trying to clear his head, to speak, but she just shifted her attention from his mouth to his ear, nibbling up the edge as far as she could reach, her tongue coming out to lick and soothe. He groaned and leaned into her.

 _“Vhenan,_ ” he ground out, even as his grip on her ass tightened and his other hand crept up to a breast. “Are you certain? We can wait, I did not mean to rush you-”

“Dread Wolf _take me,”_ she snarled. “You promised.”

And she was absolutely correct.

 

-

 

They woke, slowly and naturally, as the sun rose over the mountains. They had shifted in their sleep. Solas on his side, with Ellana curled up behind him, one arm slung over his ribs, and her face buried in his shoulderblades. Her breath was warm upon his back, and he traced the lines of her fingers with a lazy smile. He did not deserve her, but there was no part of him that could turn away from her now.

“I love you,” she murmured with sleepy contentment.

 _“Ar lath ma, vhenan,”_ he replied.

_“Ar lath ma.”_

She hummed, her fingers sliding down under the edge of his tunic, and then back up again, tracing the line of his ribs. He tensed at her touch, holding his breath, and he felt her smile against his spine. Her touch turned lighter, fluttering, and his muscles spasmed. Her hand moved up, down, across, no pattern he could follow to anticipate where she would touch next. He took shallow breaths in through his nose, trying to control his reaction. There was one spot he hoped she could not find…a line of muscle that started at the top of his hip and lead downward at an angle. Her fingers flirted with the first inch or so of skin, exactly the spot he'd hoped to keep hidden, and he could no longer control himself.

Bursting out into hearty laughter, he jackknifed off the bed, bouncing and turning in one motion to land askew atop of her. One of her hands was trapped under his body, the other was quickly pinned before she could do more damage.

He attempted a stern, “no,” but was utterly unconvincing, with how light the laughter had made his voice.

She grinned unrepentantly and wriggled, trying to free the hand pinned underneath him. He compensated by shifting more of his weight upon it.

“You’re ticklish,” she said with glee.

“I will never admit it.”

“You don’t have to. I know all your secrets.”

And he could do nothing but smile at her in wonder. Because she did.

 

-

 

“Morrigan believes that she has figured out where Corypheus will go next,” Ellana told him a few weeks later, as they lay on her bed, looking out the open windows at the stars.

“Oh?”

“Mm,” Ellana hummed. “The Arbor Wilds. She claims that there is an undiscovered temple to Mythal there, as well as an uncorrupted eluvian.” She rolled over, propped her head up on his stomach forcefully enough to cause him to grunt. She ignored him. “Is it possible to use an eluvian to reach the fade?”

Solas threaded his fingers into her hair, scratching lightly at her scalp. “It...is not a bad idea. There are some that reach into the fade now, though that was not their intended purpose.”

“I remember seeing some from when we fell into the fade at Adamant.”

He hummed. “Yes. But that is not where the eluvian in Mythal’s temple leads.”

“Then where?”

_“Banal’ras aravas’an.”_

Ellana blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“‘The shadowed place.’ Or, if you prefer, ‘the path of shadows’. A space between here and the fade, not inside the veil but, beside it…” he huffed. “It is hard to describe.”

“Morrigan called it the crossroads.”

“As good a name as any.”

Ellana shifted, flexing her feet as she thought. “Do you believe Morrigan is right? That Corypheus will go for the eluvian?”

“It is hard to say. It is not the only one still in existence.”

“I have Leliana and Scout Harding looking into it. If they find red templar activity, we’ll go. If they find _lots_ of red templar activity, we’ll go in force.”

“I could look for you,” he offered. “Stepping through the fade, I could be there and back in minutes.”

Ellana smiled, wriggled within reach, and kissed him. “While I appreciate the offer, let’s let Scout Harding do her job. She’s very good at it. And I need you here. I’ve almost translated that text you gave me.”

“I am impressed. That is not an easy task.”

She groaned, “you’re telling me! I had no idea El'vhen'an was so _fluid._ Everything depends on context, and so much of the time the formality of the speech is left up to interpretation. The only thing I can see to help with that is to count the swirls.”

Solas laughed, loud and free. “You are not the first to discover this, though I like your interpretation the best.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was learning to read and write, I too despaired with the formalities. Though I believe I called them ‘angry circles’, because the more of them there were, the more passionate the writer seemed.” Solas grinned at the memory.

“It’s so hard to imagine you as a boy.” Ellana mused.

“Well, I hardly sprang fully-formed from the ocean.”

“No, silly. That was Mythal.”

Solas seemed to ponder her words. “So it was.”

 

-

 

When she next entered the rotunda, clad for war, Solas knew that the end had begun.

“Scout Harding reports that Corypheus has been sighted in the Arbor Wilds, as well as a large number of his red templars.”

“When do we leave?” Solas asked, reaching for his staff.

“Right now.”

 

-

 

As with Adamant, the whole army accompanied them to the Arbor Wilds, as well as the entire inner circle. Only three would travel with the Inquisitor; time was of the essence, and a smaller group would move much faster than a larger one.

They all stood together, waiting for Ellana to finish speaking with Cullen, to hear her final selection as to who would fight with her. She stepped away from the Commander and approached them, her eyes grave but calm.

“Blackwall,” she said without preamble, and the man stepped forward to stand at her side. “Cole.” The spirit appeared, where he’d not been visible before. “Solas.”

Solas stepped forward, half surprised that she had picked him. Part of him had expected that she would leave him behind, asking for Fen’Harel to follow them in the shadows. But, no. She wanted him as a man.

Ellana turned to the rest of them. “Bull, take your Chargers to the third barricade. You are the last line of defense for the wounded. You have full authority to call an evacuation, should you feel the need. Keep our people safe.”

Bull stepped forward, one fist coming up to slam against his chest. “You got it, Boss.” He turned away, already raising his voice, “Chargers!”

“Varric, Sera.”

“What chew want, Quizzy?” Sera said, her flippant tone at odds with her serious face.

“Go to the second barricade. Find an elevated position. Keep them occupied.” She turned to Viviene. “Go with them. Keep them safe.”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Cassandra, Dorian.”

“First barricade. Of course.” Dorian said, beating Ellana to the punch and earning a fleeting smile for his efforts.”

“Call your friend,” Ellana said, in reference to his necromancy, much to Dorian’s surprise. “Dance.”

Dorian gave one of his rare, true smiles. “It would be my pleasure.”

Orders given, Ellana turned to the group of three she had selected to go with her to the temple. “Corypheus has a head start,” she told them, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “We will pass a lot of our soldiers already fighting. Help them if you can, but we cannot linger. We _must_ get to that eluvian first.”

The three nodded, and Morrigan approached. “I am coming with you.”

“On whose authority?” Ellana demanded. Solas had told her about Morrigan’s son, about the soul inside of it. And it had left Ellana distinctly uneasy around the other mage.

“On my own. I recognize no other. You can forbid me, if you wish, but I shall not listen. Besides,” she added with a sly smirk, “you will have need my knowledge as we travel through the temple. I have studied the ancient elvhen far more than you, and you will be glad of my help, ere the day is done.”

Ellana studied her, face a blank mask. “Very well. See that you do not get in our way.”

“I shall do my very best.” Morrigan said in a voice thick with sarcasm, as she gave the slightest of bows.

Ellana turned away, having already put Morrigan out of her mind. “Let’s go!”

They moved swiftly, the barricades much farther apart than Cullen had made them sound. There was indeed fighting everywhere, but they rarely stopped to help. Usually only if there was a behemoth, or a small group of Inquisition fighters about to be overwhelmed. Then they would descend with the force of a hurricane, staves snapping and sword flashing; Cole was nothing but a blur.

Once they passed the second barricade, they encountered an odd, third element they had not expected. Elves, lean and strong, dashed from the shadows, daggers gleaming dully in the dappled light of the forest.

“Who are they?” Ellana asked, as she cast fire at one, watching him neatly dodge away.

“It seems the temple of Mythal is not as abandoned as first assumed,” Solas said, a wall of ice rising up to protect Ellana from the invisible attacks of two more.

They fought fiercely, without mercy, and it took far too long for Ellana and her companions to cut them down. They paused afterwards, trying to catch their breaths, while Solas passed slowly to each ally, healing wounds and pouring his strength into them, reviving flagging spirits.

Ellana watched with an uncomfortable mix of jealousy and pride. Because while before, he had struggled to match her in power, he now completely eclipsed her. No longer pushing just to keep up a barrier, he maintained them effortlessly. While casting three different types of glyphs and using elemental magics to keep their enemies at bay. And he was holding back.

She flexed her left hand, calling on the power of the anchor, and it flickered to life, less than half as bright as it had been. It was good that Solas had always been a part of her traveling parties, otherwise it would have been suspicious when she brought him everywhere. And while she might have done so, simply for the sake of their relationship, it was now absolutely _vital_ that she do so. She no longer had enough power in the anchor to effect a closure on her own. He still needed her to touch the rifts, to make the initial connection, but after that, it was _his_ power, _his_ will that closed each of the fissures. He had told her, after Adamant, that he was still less than half his original strength.

It was no wonder the elvhen thought them gods.

“Guardians?” Blackwall asked, toeing one cautiously.

“For certain. Likely descendants of the originals, carrying out a sacred duty, passed down through the ages.” Morrigan said, absorbing Solas’s healing without thanks.

“Waking, sleeping, endless duty. Fight for protection, penance, patience. They will not enter!” Cole said.

Ellana nodded at Blackwall, and he took point, leading them down the riverbank towards the temple. Cole and Morrigan followed, and Ellana dropped back to walk next to Solas, speaking to him in a low voice.

“What do you think?”

“I hope Morrigan is right.”

“She might not be?”

“They feel...different.” He frowned, trying to describe the feeling. “They may be elvhen, but I cannot tell.”

“Can you find out?” Ellana pressed.

He shook his head. “I am afraid not. I would need to get close to search for how time flows around them, and that only happens is in battle. I cannot find the peace I need there.”

Ellana nodded her head grimly. “Then let us hope.”

They encountered more and more of the elves as they drew closer to the temple, but the number of templars increased as well. The elves fought the Inquisition and templars with equal ferocity, obviously defending the temple from all who approached. Solas tried, a few times, to call out to them, pleading with them to stop. To listen. Telling them that they were not enemies.

But they never listened, and only ever fought the harder.

Eventually, they encountered the temple itself, and entered through the great doors to find it a small entryway leading to a greater hall. Below, on a platform too far to reach quickly, Corypheus assaulted a group of elves, who held a bridge against him.

“Pitiful creatures! You know not who you attack. I am Corypheus! God among mortals, and I will not be denied!”

The magester reached down and snatched up the nearest elf, a mage by the staff in his hands, and held him aloft by his neck as he took one powerful step onto the bridge. Instantly, all the archers on the bridge cried out together, one word rising up to the Inquisition group scrambling down the steep steps.

_“Halam’shivanas!”_

_The sweet sacrifice of duty._

The two dragon statues to either side of the entrance, previously inert, lit up with golden power from within. Two beams of light, blinding in their intensity, attacked Corypheus, overpowering him. He cried out, staggered, and dropped the mage. The man landed on his knees, threw his head back, and added his voice to the chorus.

_“Halam’shivanas!”_

“They are going to die!” Solas cried out, dashing for the bridge, the others close behind him. _“Levallen!  Ara mana!” Stop, please, my brothers._

The light intensified, forcing them to turn their eyes away, or be blinded. Corypheus screamed in agony, there was an explosion, and all fell silent. They turned back, blinking black spots from their eyes, and Corypheus was dead. The statues on either side were smoking black, and all the elves on their backs on the bridge, their sightless eyes staring up at the sky.

“My god, they’re all dead!” Blackwall said.

The group approached Corypheus warrily. He had cheated death once before, after all. Solas crouched next to the magister, hate warping his features until they were unrecognizable. Ellana turned away, moving to stand by Cole.

“Not all of them!” Morrigan cried, as more red templars poured down the steps after them.

“Into the temple! Go, go!” Ellana cried, and the whole group took off running. Blackwall stumbled, almost fell, but Ellana got a hand on his elbow, forcing him up. “Run!”

“Corypheus!” Cole screamed, and they couldn’t help but turn and look.

One of the lead men, a Grey Warden by his armor, began to shiver and cry out, his limbs jerking in a way clearly beyond his control. Blood the ruby red of the corrupted lyrium spewed from his mouth, and he screamed in agony. A few more spasms, and then it became clear exactly what was happening. The right side of his skull split, revealing large crystals of red lyrium. His hands elongated, thinned, his eyes grew small and glowed like firelight.

“Oh, Creators, how can he _do_ that?” Ellana cried.

Corypheus stood out of the ashes of another man and _screamed._

“The doors!” Solas called, and Ellana dashed through them last, taking a place near the edge and pushing with all her strength.

Between the five of them, they managed to get them closed before Corypheus or his forces reached them. The doors flared golden, a gentler color than what they had seen outside, and sealed as if it was one piece of solid stone.

“Will it hold?” Ellana demanded, whirling to face Solas. “Will it hold!”

Solas gasped for breath, clearly shaken. “Yes. Yes, it will hold. For now.”

Ellana relaxed minutely, and gestured to the group. They moved through the hallway, gaping at the architecture, wondering at what it must have looked like at the height of its splendor.

“Where are we?” the Inquisitor asked, as they stepped into a larger room.

“A vestibule, I would wager,” Morrigan said, moving to inspect a large urn carved from rock, with what looked like elvhen script upon its sides. _“Atish’all vir abelasan._ Enter the path of the Well of Sorrows. Hmm. It seems _this_ is what Corypheus is after. Not the eluvian.”

Ellana glanced at Solas, but he just shook his head, clearly absorbed in memories. She sighed, and decided to play along with Morrigan. “What is this ‘Well of Sorrows’?”

“There are legends,” Morrigan said, as the group slowly wandered around the room, inspecting the ruins. “The Well of Sorrows is said to be a source of enormous power - or wisdom - to the people of Elvhenan. With it, Corypheus could easily step into the fade.”

“Did you know this was here?” Ellana demanded of Morrigan.

“I did not. Do you wish me to say that I was wrong? I was. But that does not change our mission. If Corypheus wants the well, then we must get to it first.”

Ellana scoffed, and went up the central stairs, curving off to the left when she saw something intriguing. “Is that…”

“Fen’Harel!” Morrigan said, utterly shocked.

“Again?” Blackwall asked.

Morrigan shot the man a piercing glance, but Blackwall caught the Inquisitor's headshake.

"The Inquisitor curses with his name a lot," Blackwell lied smoothly.

“And with good cause, should the legends be believed. Fen'Harel: The Dread Wolf, Lord of Nightmares. Tis said that he banished all the elvhen ‘gods’ and spent the last thousand years in some dark corner of the fade, giggling to himself.” Morrigan said. Ellana and Solas both kept silent. “To see a statue of him here...it is like having a mural of Mapherath the Betrayer in the place of Andraste in a Chantry. It is blasphemy of the highest order!”

Ellana glanced at Solas, whose lips were pressed tightly together in a thin, white line. She leaned over, gave him a gentle kiss, and whispered into his ear, _“ar lath ma, vhenan.”_

He nodded, forcefully relaxed his shoulders, and wrangled his expression into something resembling his normal placid one. His hands, clenched together, were hidden up his sleeves. Ellana had no doubt that his knuckles would be white from the strain. She squeezed his arm gently, and lead them away from the statue, back down the stairs to the stone urn.

“How do we get through the doors?” she asked Morrigan, hoping to leave Solas in peace.

“Elvhen would have come here, seeking Mythal’s judgment. They would have been required to prove themselves, to ‘walk the path’, before they would be allowed to come before her. We must do the same.” Morrigan said, gesturing at the plates on the ground around the urn.

“‘Walk the path’, hm?” Ellana stepped forward, and as soon as her foot brushed the first plate, it lit up golden, as seemed so prevalent in this place. She jumped back, but felt nothing more than a pleasant surge in her magic. The plate faded back into grey. “Walk the path...”

Ellana placed her foot upon the plate again, gasping as the magic returned, then followed the line of scrollwork around, each plate along the way lighting up as she went. When she reached the end, or perhaps the beginning, they flaired blue before dulling again. A soft cry or whistle, and the impassable door at the far end of the room swung soundlessly open.

“I see,” Ellana said, flashing a grin at Cole. He seemed the happiest person here, and she wanted someone to share her joy with. Morrigan was too cold, Blackwall didn’t care, and Solas was just trying to fight off memories.

The five of them followed the short hallway, only to come out in a new, larger room. Two doors led off to their left and right, while at the bottom of steps on either side, Ellana could see another set on the lower level. She recognized the writing above the doors as the same that had been on the urn.

"Walk the path?” Ellana guessed, and Morrigan nodded. “All right,” she sighed, and lead them to the first door on the left.

The puzzles were surprisingly clever, and Ellana enjoyed the challenge they presented as she scrambled from end to end, trying to step on each of the tiles only once. The others just stayed out of her way. They’d learned that only one person could walk the path at a time, or the puzzle would reset. The last was the trickiest, and she spent several minutes just staring at it, plotting her steps, before walking onto it, surefooted, and completing it on the first try.

“Impressive,” Morrigan said reluctantly.

Ellana smirked, but did not respond.

They entered the ornate door that gave at their approach, and came to the first untouched section of the temple they’d yet seen.

“It’s beautiful.” Ellana said, eyes wide.

“It’s occupied,” Blackwall snarled, and rows of archers appeared aside and behind them.

Solas, who had been so carefully silent, cried out in surprise, and Ellana felt her anchor flair in response.

Uncaring about how swift motion might be perceived, Ellana spun on her heel to face him, found him crumpled on the floor, hands clutched to his chest. _“Vhenan!”_ she cried out, unaware of what she’d said, the intimate relationship she had revealed, and collapsed next to him. One arm slid around his shoulders, as she urged him to look up. “What happened? Are you all right? Please, my love, look at me…”

He raised his head, eyes glowing fade green, and Ellana gasped.

Behind them, a tall elvhen with the _vallaslin_ of Mythal had appeared on the raised platform during the distraction. “Who are you, to invade the Temple of Mythal?” he called down.

Everyone but Solas and Ellana turned to face him.

“Are you the leader of these guardians?” Morrigan demanded, gesturing at the archers.

Solas and Ellana stared at each other for a long moment, before he surged forward. One hand, claw like, wrapped around the back of her neck and drew her to him, kissing her with a fierceness that bordered on frightening. When he pulled back, his grin was sharp as a wolf’s.

Ellana closed her eyes.

“I am. And you are _shemlen_ who have come to steal the Well of Sorrows. You cannot have it.”

 _“Lethallin,”_ Solas called in a voice full of power, taking Ellana’s left hand and drawing them both to their feet. When he stepped forward, he kept her even with him. Equal. Always. His left hand dangled in a careless gesture at his side.

The guardian’s eyes flared. “Who are you, to call us kin?” he demanded.

Green power emanated from where their hands were joined, and it quickly expanded to encompass the both of them. When it faded, they were gone. Almost instantaneously, the same green light appeared up on the dias with the guardian, and when it, too, was gone, Ellana and Solas stood beside him.

Solas raised his left hand, his sleeve falling down to reveal what he held clasped in his fist. The elvhen orb, foci of the gods, drained of all its power.

“Fen’Harel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit about to get cray cray.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The confrontation with Corypheous.

“What is your name?” Fen’Harel demanded of the guardian who stood before him. The orb was dropped, no longer an object of interest. It rolled away, to be forgotten.

“Abelas, my lord.”

“What?” Morrigan cried in disbelief from below. “And you believe him, just like that?” One hand rose to point up at Ellana and Solas, their hands still clasped. "Just with some green light and fade-stepping?"

Abelas turned to face her, incredulity upon his face. “And you do not? Can you not recognize a god when you see one? Even if he had not claimed the name, I would have known him. His magic is familiar.”

“We were not gods, Abelas. We never were.” Fen’Harel told him softly. A truth he did not expect to have believed.

“It is said that you rejected your godhood to help the People,” Abelas said, turning to keep both Fen’Harel and the humans at the bottom within sight.

“That’s one way to put it,” Ellana murmured, and Fen’Harel squeezed her hand.

“We are not here for the Well, Abelas,” Fen’Harel told him.

Abelas nodded and gestured. As one, the archers lowered their bows.

“Speak for yourself!” Morrigan transformed into a raven, streaking up over their heads and aiming for the door in the back.

Fen’Harel vanished in a green rush of energy and was back almost instantly, the raven contained inside a cage he had no doubt conjured during his short trip through the fade.

“She doesn’t like it,” Cole spoke up from the bottom.

“I know, Cole,” Fen’Harel said softly, taking Ellana’s hand again. He didn’t seem to want to let her go. “But she was going to hurt everyone. I could not let her.”

“Yes.” Cole said, and subsided.

“Wait. I’m confused.” Blackwall said, peering around. “What the bloody hell just happened?”

"Ellana?" Fen'Harel said.

Ellana looked at him, “are you sure?”

Fen’Harel nodded. “It is time. Go. Explain it to him, while I speak with Abelas. Corypheus will not be held back forever.”

Ellana took a step away, then tugged on his hand, bringing him back around to face her. “I’ll go,” she told him. “But don’t think I’ll take orders from you forever, _Dread Wolf.”_

His tense expression softened with devotion. “I would not love you half as much if you did.”

She smiled, glanced around at all the eyes trained on them, and made to step away. It was his turn to tug on her hand, and he leaned in to give her a short, but passionate kiss. Her laugh was merry as they parted.

Ellana approached the elvhen standing on the side, and asked to be brought to Blackwall in halting El'vhen'an. The communication was stilted, but serviceable and in the end, one stepped forward to act as guide.

She followed him through pathways and down stairs that glittered with gems and jewels set in the walls, depicting each of the gods. Blackwall had a similar guide, and they met somewhere within the hallways of the temple.

“Just what the hell is going on, Inquisitor?” Blackwall demanded, vibrating with an unnamed emotion. “Why is Solas claiming to be Fen’Harel? And _why are they believing him?”_

Ellana took a deep breath.

 

-

 

“It is good to see another of the People,” Abelas told Fen’Harel respectfully, as the Inquisitor walked away. “We thought all had quickened and died.”

“She is unique,” Fen’Harel told Abelas with pride, watching Ellana until she disappeared around a corner. He turned his full attention to the sentinel before him. “I must speak to you of Corypheus.”

“He is the one who cannot be killed?”

“Yes. He has split his soul in two. Half resides inside a corrupted dragon that he has claimed as pet.”

“I see.” Abelas frowned. “What would you have us do? We are bound to Mythal.”

“You know you need not be,” Fen’Harel said kindly.

Abelas shook his head. “We serve willingly, my lord. We would not see the connection severed.”

Fen’Harel sighed. “Very well. Then all I would ask of you is this: cease your attacks on the Inquisition, focus only on the red templars. We brought an army with us, and we need not be enemies.”

“It shall be done.” Abelas looked to the left, and one of the hooded figures bowed slightly, striding off with purpose.

_“You son of a bitch!”_

Blackwall came roaring up the stairs, Ellana chasing after him. Fen’Harel took one step away from Abelas, and braced himself. The warrior drew back a fist, still covered in mail, and threw it with all his strength at Solas’s chin. The mage’s head snapped back, his foot came down to brace himself, and he took the blow without staggering.

“The orb was yours all along!” Blackwall screamed.

“It was,” Fen’Harel said calmly, magic blooming under his skin to heal the damage. “It was stolen from me after I awoke, and I hadn’t the strength to retrieve it on my own.”

“You _lied!_ You lied to us all!” Blackwall accused.

“And you did not?” Fen’Harel’s eyes flashed. He had never been one to take a beating lying down.

“That’s _different.”_ Blackwall spat. _“I_ was not the one responsible for the hole in the sky!”

“Neither was I.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t have a hand in it. It was _your orb_ that gave him the power!”

“Should a man steal your sword, and use it to kill another, shall we blame you? Or the sword? Or the man who did the killing?” Fen’Harel asked, looking so much like the reasonable, unflappable Solas that Blackwall’s anger stuttered momentarily. “I am not guiltless, Master Blackwall. But neither am I entirely to blame. _Corypheus_ is responsible for his own actions, and he will pay for them.”

Still panting from the sprint, Blackwall turned away with a curse, most of his anger spent. “Damn elves and your - why don’t you go hump a cactus?” the human wandered away, to finish calming down.

Abelas observed the proceedings with interested eyes. “You allowed him to strike you.”

Fen’Harel shrugged, an elegant rolling of his shoulders. “I deserved it. And he has earned the right.”

Ellana stepped up to Abelas. “Would you consider coming back with us? We are trying to rebuild for our people. We could use your wisdom and insight.”

“Our duty is here, my lady. Let the land beyond care for itself.”

“She is gone,” Cole announced, crouching over the cage that had once held Morrigan.

“Where!” Ellana demanded of the spirit.

“Wet, waiting, wanting. The Well, wishes, whispers. We must keep, care, contain. It cannot be lost.”

 _“Fendhis!”_ Ellana yelled, and took off running, close on Abelas' heels.

But green obscured their vision, their steps stuttering to a halt in the fade. Then the energy rose again, and they stood in front of an empty pool, Morrigan lying dazed at its bottom.

 _“Nae. Abelasan,_ ” Abelas mourned, falling to his knees as Morrigan groggily rose to hers. “It has been despoiled.”

 _“Na mara san, viran ar lan’aan?”_ Morrigan spoke in ancient elvhen, and only Abelas and Fen’Harel understood her. She shook her head, slowly seeming to come to her senses. _“Ir tel’him.”_

Fen’Harel observed her with a keen eye, his magic swirling around the mage standing slowly to her feet. “Not so, Abelas.”

The sentinel stood to his feet, a crushing burden settling on his shoulders. “It is lost, Fen’Harel. Wasted on a _shemlin.”_

Fen’Harel turned his eyes on the despondent elvhen. “She is more than she appears, Abelas. Her soul was already tied to Mythal.”

Abelas froze. Slowly, he turned back to Morrigan, who raised defiant eyes to his.

“You would have let it go to waste!" she said in defence of the disproving states pointed her way. "All this knowledge, protected for centuries, and for what? To languish in a pool, never used!”

Ellana stepped up to Fen’Harel, slipped her hand into his. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

Abelas stepped slowly down into the empty pool, pacing around Morrigan with careful steps, uncaring about how the mage followed him on unsteady feet, unwilling to allow him to ever face her back.

“What do you see, Abelas?” Fen’Harel called out, squeezing Ellana’s hand in a silent request for patience.

For the first time, Abelas unfurled his magic. No where near as strong as Fen’Harel, he nevertheless rivaled Ellana in pure power. His control was delicate, refined, as he gently tasted of Morrigan’s aura.

“What are you doing?” she cried, trying to slap him away with a fumbling blow. But she had never attempted to manipulate her aura before, and her strike was as weak as a child’s.

“Similar, but not the same,” Abelas mused, turning his back on her and moving to stand at Fen’Harel’s side. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Morrigan,” Fen’Harel told Abelas with relish.

“Ancient, wise, whispered, wanting. Souls split, shared through time. Years of waiting, watching, wondering. The body dies, the child cries, years before she will be ready. Is it time? Will she take? The mother loves, even as she hates, the all-mother felt just the same.” Cole turned to look Morrigan in the eye, and the blood drained completely from her face. “A daughter born, through the ages, given the gift of burdened life. Over and over, the cycle dances. Mythal _suledin enasal.”_

“Mythal has endured, and lives again,” Abelas translated in a hushed whisper.

Fen’Harel turned to Ellana, his smile bright and wide. “Mythal _lives.”_

Before there could be a response, a cry of warning went up, a long string of elvhen, backed up by Blackwall’s cry.

“Corypheus has broken through the first door! The red templars are forcing their way through, they’ll be here soon!” Blackwall and an elvhen messenger came barreling up a set of stairs, sharing the same wide-eyed look. “Can you take him?” he demanded of Solas.

“Not while he still possesses the dragon. He would simply revive again and again. We must retreat, for the moment.”

“Where?” Blackwall demanded. “All the doors lead back to the entrance.”

“Then we will use a mirror,” Fen’Harel said, then turned to Abelas. “Gather your men. Tell those that can meet us here quickly enough to come. Let the others scatter to the wilds. _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ is their destination.”

Abelas nodded. “The seat of your power.”

Fen’Harel smiled, shaking his head. “Mine, no longer. _She,”_ he glanced at Ellana with affection, “rules there. As Inquisitor.” He turned back to Ableas. “There will be many _shemlen_ there, when you make it through the eluvian. Do not respond, whatever they may say. Take to the caves, I will meet you there."

 

-

 

The elves moved quickly, Blackwall would give them that. It was a matter of minutes before the area before the empty well was full of elves in gleaming armor, all standing in silence.

“All that will join us are here, my lord,” Abelas told Solas. And man, but wasn’t that _weird_ to hear these ancient elves treat _Solas_ with so much respect. The man dressed in _fur,_ for Maker’s sake.

“Good. I will open the eluvian, then hold off Corypheus until everyone can pass through.”

Well. That was a ballsy move.

“Want some help?” Blackwall offered. He swore to never leave a man behind. Even if it was a demi-god.

To his credit, Solas actually considered the offer. “That would be much appreciated, Master Blackwall.”

Blackwall turned to face the rest of the elves, only to see the Inquisitor standing with her feet shoulder width apart, and her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Uh-oh.”

Solas turned to look, from where he’d just opened the eluvian, and grimaced. “Ellana-”

“No.”

“Inquisitor, please-”

“No.”

Solas sighed, and stepped up to the Inquisitor, wrapping an arm around her waist and whispering in her ear. Blackwall didn’t know what the elf was saying, but he wished him luck.

“All right, gents!” Blackwall said, stepping away from the arguing couple and gesturing towards the glowing mirror. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”

Fifty pairs of eyes stared at him, then turned to look at Abelas as one. The sentinel shrugged, rattled off a string of elvish, and they turned and entered the mirror, its surface rippling as each one passed through. As the elves slowly disappeared, Blackwall rolled his shoulders, bouncing in place as he felt the adrenalin begin to flow. Abelas stepped up beside him, arms folded calmly behind his back. Huh. Must be an elf thing.

“Protect him with your life, Master Blackwall,” Abelas said, and Blackwall realized that it was the first time he’d been addressed by the man.

He offered him the truth in return. “I always do.”

 

-

 

 _“Vhenan,_ please,” Fen’Harel whispered, his tone begging her not to fight him, fingers tight at her side. “I cannot defeat Corypheus, only hold him back for a time. I need you to lead them to safety while I do so.”

“No. I will not allow you to fight him without me.”

“You are the only one, besides myself, who can open any eluvian. The password is: Fen’Harel _enansal.”_

“I don’t care. Morrigan can open the one that leads to Skyhold. Let _her_ lead them through the path of shadows.”

_“Vhenan-”_

“No. Stop it.” Ellana pulled free from his grasp, stalking a few feet away to turn and glare at him. “It is manipulative to call me that in the middle of an argument, and you know it. We have fought _everything_ together. Mages and templars, demons and _dragons._ I _will not_ allow you to face Corypheus, even temporarily, without me.” His face collapsed, revealing such worry and pain, that she felt her anger towards him soften. “You love me. And I love you. I know that you just want to keep me safe. But I am the _Inquisitor._ You _can’t_ cover me in cotton and expect it all to go away.” She stepped back towards him, allowed him to wrap her in his arms, face buried in her shoulder. “I imagine I suddenly feel very weak to you, hmm? With all that magic returned to you. But I am just as capable now as I was before you reabsorbed your power.”

“I-yes. You are right. I have let fear get the better of me. _Ir abelas.”_

Ellana smiled. _“Ar lath ma,_ Fen’Harel.”

 _“Ar lath ma,_ Ellana.”

 

-

 

With the elvhen retreating orderly into the eluvian - Morrigan already on the other side, hopefully with the eluvian to Skyhold open - Fen’Harel and Ellana took the time to lay traps for Corypheus and his troops. Glyphs of fire and ice, and something that the Inquisitor had never seen before.

Fen’Harel pressed his hand against the base of one of the dragon statues littering the area, his face a mask of concentration. He lingered only for a moment, before moving on to the next, and the next.

“What are you doing?” she asked, creeping closer.

“They will fight for us, when the time comes.”

“Well, that’s useful,” Blackwall said, clearly intrigued. “Can you do that with any statue?”

“Not any,” Fen’Harel said, approaching the last as there was a shattering boom against the warded door. “But we have no more time.”

Cole had reappeared several minutes before, and now the four of them took up battle stances in the center of the room. Fen’Harel and Ellana in the back, as per custom, with Cole before them, a little off to the side. And in front of them all, a shining wall of armor and steel, Blackwall was their first and last defense.

“You don’t need your orb-thing?” Blackwall asked, to combat the tension as it rose incrementally with each strike against the door.

“Not anymore,” Fen’Harel said, his staff held loosely in his hand in a comfortable grip, “Its power has returned to me. Now it is as it was - a fancy carving, and nothing more.”

“Bet _he_ doesn’t know that.” Blackwall muttered, eyes trained on the door as it cracked under the strain.

“A very good point.”

A small tear in the veil, no larger than Fen’Harel’s hand, appeared before the elvhen. He slipped his hand through, and when he pulled it back, the orb was in his hand once again. The rift slid closed silently.

“He will aim for me with this,” Fen’Harel said. “Do not try to defend me, Blackwall. Keep your attention on Cole and the Inquisitor. I will be fade-stepping almost constantly.”

“You got it.”

The conversation fell silent, and after only a few more seconds, the door cracked enough to allow an arrow through the hole. Blackwall raised his shield, precisely angled, and the arrow skittered off the side, to fall harmlessly to the floor a few feet away.

“Come and get it!” Blackwall roared in challenge, and a voice answered.

A templar charged through the door, breaking it into splinters. Blackwall raised his shield so that it covered everything but his eyes, his sword to the side, and shifted his weight in such a way that he seemed to form a defensive wall, all on his own. The templar stepped on the first of the ice glyphs, his armor freezing solid and rendering him incapable of movement. Cole appeared behind him, stabbed his daggers down between neck and collar, and the man was dead before the ice shattered.

More poured in behind him, some bursting into flames, others freezing as well. Cole took out as many of the frozen ones as he could, but the ice was only ever temporary, and more than half escaped.

Ellana called up a wall of fire in the space between Blackwall and the last ice glyph, forcing them to go over the glyphs, through the fire, or both, in order to reach the warrior. Once it was burning, she hurled bolts of lightning at the templars that were on fire, the energy leaping from one to the next, sparking with the birth of new flames. They screamed and dropped to the ground, rolling to put out the fire. But armor did not give, and they left themselves open to Blackwall’s sword.

Corypheus floated through the entrance on what _had_ to be pure malice, and Ellana couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Any mage do that, if they wished. But it was a stupid waste of mana.

“Come, Corypheus!” Fen’Harel cried, orb held aloft, green and glowing as if it still contained power. “Claim the power of a god - if you can!”

“The orb is _mine,”_ Corypheus snarled, lunging across the battlefield, skeletal hands outstretched.

Fen’Harel smiled viciously and vanished, the energy of the fade absorbing him like a lover.

“Pitiful fake!” Corypheus roared, turning in place to seek the elvhen. “I know your story. And you are not worthy of the power the orb contains.”

“No?” Fen’Harel reappeared in the shadows of one of the statues, and it surged to life, the wings spreading, mouth agape, its roar that of an avalanche. “Go,” he told it quietly, and it lept.

Corypheus dodged out of the way, directly into the path of a miniature blizzard that Fen’Harel had called up. His head and arm were all that were affected, but crystals of ice instantly formed on the lyrium along his head and jaw, the robes fluttering along his desiccated body became immovably stiff. The stone dragon leapt again, impacting him on his frozen side, and Corypheus didn’t even feel it when his arm snapped off at the shoulder.

He screamed in rage and reached out with one hand, to hurl bolts of energy at Fen’Harel. But the Wolf was gone.

Corypheus spun, called out tauntingly, “Coward! Face me!” and was hit with an oily splash of fire. His robes and brittle skin caught flame, the lyrium on his face and neck shattering with the sudden change in temperature. He roared, dropping to the ground, his ankles shattered - how had that happened? - and he buckled to his knees. The stone dragon landed on his chest, and as it began to crack open his ribs, Corypheus saw the Dread Wolf, leaning casually on his staff, orb in hand.

“Try again,” the elvhen told him, and Corypheus was cast free of his body.

 

-

 

If what they had seen before held true, it would take Corypheus a minute, perhaps more, to reform a body of a Warden to suit his uses. Fen’Harel took the time to activate a few more statues, pointing them at the frey boiling around the door.

Ellana cast a barrier at Blackwall, stronger for only being around him, but it left her vulnerable to the stalker that crept along the edges of the battle. Fen’Harel cast his own barrier around her, and Cole when he found the spirit, assigning one of the dragons to each of his friends. To defend them and aid in their battles. He poured healing energy into his companions, boosting Ellana’s mana, and Cole and Blackwall’s stamina.

A scream of rage, and Fen’Harel knew he was out of time. He turned to look at the door, but wasn’t fast enough as Corypheus flew at him, striking him from the side and sending them tumbling through the air in a tangled mass of limbs. Fen’Harel reached for the fade and slipped into it, leaving Corypheus to slam face-first into the base of the dias. The Wolf reappeared in the physical world just in time to see his stone dragon land on Coryphus’ back, claws catching and tearing.

Corypheus heaved, the dragon tumbled away, and the magester continued the motion, his hand full of power. It lept from his hand, striking the dragon on its shoulder, and the stone crumbled as if with immense age.

“Time magic?” Fen’Harel asked with a raised eyebrow, curling his power along the floor towards the nearest statue. He still had two more he could call from.

“I will age you just the same,” Corypheus promised.

Fen’Harel stepped into the fade, taking a moment to check on the progress of the elvhen escaping through the mirror. There were only a handful left. It was time to go. Fen’Harel reappeared behind the magester, cast alternating spells of winter and earth, pounding the darkspawn with ice and stone. But Corypheus had grown wise, and he flickered away, using a teleport spell - likely built into the lyrium - to avoid the Wolf’s attacks.

The dragons came to life, landing on either side of Fen’Harel, wings raised in challenge. The one on the left crumbled with age and Fen’Harel stepped away to the top of the now empty ledge where Abelas had introduced himself. “You wish the power of a god?” he called, and Corypheus turned to look up at him. “Then you will need this.” Fen’Harel cocked his arm back, then threw it forward, the orb, glowing a luminous green, aimed directly at the magester.

Surprise was ugly on a face warped by red lyrium, and the Corypheus’ hands came up to catch the orb. He cradled it gently, curving his body over it protectively. “This is the second time you have allowed this to enter my grasp.”

“And still, it will do you no good.” Fen’Harel made a wordless gesture, and the orb exploded into thousands of shards of shrapnel, embedding themselves in Corypheus’ stomach, hands, chest.

Eye.

The darkspawn crumpled in death a second time, and before the body was completely finished twitching, Fen’Harel called out, “Retreat!”

The dragons roared, swinging tails to knock enemies away from his friends, and the three who had been holding the door sprinted for the stairs Fen’Harel raised up for them. Corypheus was once again charging through the door as Ellana slipped through the eluvian.

“What are you?” Corypheus screamed.

 _“Dirthara-ma,”_ Fen’Harel smiled, and vanished through the mirror, locking it behind him.

_May you learn._

 

-

 

The Inquisitor and Blackwall were standing just beyond the eluvian’s exit, hands on knees, gasping for breath.

“That was...amazing,” Lavellan said, gasping for breath. “How many times did you kill him?”

“Twice,” Fen’Harel answered absently, placing one hand on Ellana’s back, and one on Blackwall’s as he poured energy into them.

Cole stood on the side, peaceful as ever, now that they were not fighting.

“One-on-one against Corypheus, and he kills the bastard _twice.”_ Blackwall shook his head, standing up straight and rolling his shoulders. “That orb of yours is scary.”

“It was not the orb itself, but the magic inside. It is of no consequence now.” Fen’Harel frowned as he looked around the crossroads. “I see even this place is diminished.”

The mirror behind them flaired with energy, then went dark. Blackwall stepped away from it warily. “What just happened?” he asked.

“Corypheus destroyed the mirror. Likely in a fit of pique.” Fen’Harel lead the way through the crossroads, his head swinging from side to side as he searched.

The Inquisitor came up on this right side, slipping her hand into his. He smiled at her, and she responded in kind, leaning over to brush his cheek with a kiss. They turned a corner and encountered a problem. The elvhen that had escaped into the crossroads stood bunched in front of an activated eluvian. Standing alertly, staring at it. But not one passed through.

“Is there a problem here?” The Inquisitor asked, her spine straightening.

The sentinals turned to look at her, but not a one spoke.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Inquisitor,” Solas offered. “Perhaps they do not understand you. Only Abelas ever spoke to us.”

She pursed her lips, but nodded. Solas bowed his head to her, and stepped towards them, speaking rapid-fire El’vhen’an. There was a pause, then one took a half step forward, answering.

“Ah.” Solas nodded to the elvhen, and turned back to the Inquisitor to translate. “Morrigan went through first, followed by Abelas. The first elvhen that stepped through was ejected by Abelas. They’ve waited for word since.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed. “How long?”

“No more than a few minutes.”

“They’d better not be doing what I _think_ they’re doing,” the Inquisitor mumbled under her breath as she stalked towards the eluvian.

Blackwall grinned widely as he followed her. “This is going to be _good.”_

The Inquisitor stepped through the eluvian, to find Abelas held at sword point by a pair of Cullen’s soldiers, and Leliana watching him like a hawk, while Morrigan spoke to her urgently.

“I’m _telling_ you,” Morrigan was saying, “the Inquisitor - there she is! Ask her yourself.”

Before she spoke to anyone else, the Inquisitor turned to Abelas, who watched everyone with steely eyes. _“Ir abelas,_ my friend. This should never have happened. I will make it right - immediately.” Abelas inclined his head to her, and the Inquisitor spun in place. “Put your swords down!” she demanded, and the startled soldiers hastened to obey. “The two of you will escort our guests wherever they wish to go. If that is straight out the gates, then you will lead them there _without delay.”_

“Y-yes, Inquisitor!” the two men saluted hastily, then turned to look at Abelas uncertainly.

Abelas paused, glanced at Solas, who nodded minutely, then stepped back through the eluvian. Before the soldiers could do more than blink, Abelas was back, with a throng of elves following in his wake. They breezed passed the soldiers without comment, and they scrambled to take up positions on either side, to ensure that they would not be molested.

“Inquisitor-” Leliana began.

“No, Leliana. What were you thinking? I offered them sanctuary, told them they would be _safe_ here, and you hold their leader at sword point! They already look down on humans and elves, this will certainly not help either of our cases!”

Leliana bristled. “I was thinking that Morrigan had betrayed us, and was leading an army through our back door!”

“Tis not I who threatened potential allies,” Morrigan smirked.

“No,” the Inquisitor sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. “But you _did_ betray me back there.”

 _“I?”_ Morrigan objected.

“The _vir’abelasan,_ Morrigan. Don’t think that I’ve conveniently forgotten.”

“Knowledge must be-”

“Morrigan-” the Inquisitor began, her tone hot. Then she paused, visibly calming herself. “Not now.”

The witch nodded, bowed ever so slightly, and left the room.

“What happened in the Arbor Wilds?” Lelian asked kindly, taking in the battle-weary forms of her friends.

The Inquisitor’s eyes widened. “Shit! The soldiers! Leliana, will you-”

Leliana held up a calming hand. “Already done.”

Lavellan sagged. “What would I do without you?” She chewed her lip and looked around to find that Blackwall had already left. The last of the elvhen had passed through the eluvian, and Solas was closing it behind them. “Solas…?”

Solas inclined his head. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

“Get them whatever they need. And...talk to Blackwall?”

“I shall.” Solas left the room with nothing more than a brush of his sleeve against Ellana’s.

Lavellan turned back to Leliana. “I’m sorry for snapping at you like that. You did the right thing, of course. Morrigan _had_ betrayed me, just not like you think.”

“Is keeping her here a wise course of action?”

“She’s made herself unfortunately valuable, I’m afraid.” Lavellan said ruefully.

“Let’s go find Josie. This seems like it will take a while.”

“You have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments on the fight scene? I'm not so confident about those.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas comes clean to the advisers, and Kieran runs away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the italics!

“I can’t _believe_ you hid this from us!” Leliana said for the sixth time, turning on her heel and pacing back the way she had come.

“I’ve only known a few weeks myself-”

“You should have told me _immediately!”_ Leliana insisted, again.

Lavellan sighed. “It was not my secret to tell-”

“And yet you are telling us now, are you not, Inquisitor?” Josephine jumped in. No less irate than Leliana, simply more subtle about it.

“What is he going to do now? Fen’Harel? Will he take over the Inquisition? Will you bow to your _lover?”_ Leliana scoffed.

“Now, hang on-”

“It’s a valid question, Inquisitor.” Josephine said.

Ellana just stared at the two of them, quite fed up with being cut off at every turn.

“Well?” Leliana demanded.

Lavellen folded her arms. “No.”

“No?”

“No, what? No, he won’t take over? No, you don’t know? What does that mean?” Josephine insisted.

“I mean, ‘no’ I am not talking to either of you like this. You’re so worked up, you can’t hear a word I’m saying. Go stick your heads in a bucket of water and come talk to me when you’ve calmed down.”

“Inquisitor-”

_“Enough!”_ the Inquisitor jumped to her feet and slammed her hands down upon the war table with such force that all of the pieces upon it jumped up in the air and landed on their sides, most rolling away and onto the floor. “You made me Inquisitor because I had been leading us from the start. Because of the mark on my hand. Because I was making the decisions, and you might as well acknowledge it. Since then, _each of you_ has told me that you respect me. That you are grateful to me. That you believe I am doing the right thing _the right way._ I will _not_ sit here any longer and allow you to browbeat me like some simple _da’len!”_ Her breath heaved in her chest, and the two advisers stared at her with shocked eyes.

Lavellan closed her eyes, counting to ten in El’vhen’an. Then she opened them, and tried again. “I understand your concerns. _I do._ You will recall the day after Fen’Harel first visited me in my dreams. How _terrified_ I was of him. But he earned my trust - yes, _earned it,_ Leliana! - through _time_ and _effort_ and _patience._ He has not bespelled me, he has not threatened me, and he does not _rule_ me. We are _equals._ He has more mana, I have more political and martial might. And until earlier today, he didn’t even have that. He has _never_ made a decision for me. I have asked his opinion, of course I have! The same as I’ve asked council from you.” She finally stood up, her hands shaking - from rage or passion, she could not tell - and she folded them over her chest to hide the tremors. “He is indeed partially to blame for Corypheus’ rise to power. But he has also done _everything_ he could to stop him. He has healed our people, he has fought our battles, he has _bled_ for us. And he will continue to do so. The _only_ thing that has changed, is that he now has more power to bend to our cause.”

“But the orb is his!” Josephine objected.

Ellana sighed, more than frustrated with their inability to let this point go. “It was _stolen_ from him. How did he put it to Blackwall?”

“If a man steals your sword, and kills another with it. Who are we to blame? You? Your sword? Or the one who did the killing?” Solas closed the door to the War Room behind him, silencing wards flaring soundlessly into place. “I could hear you down the hall,” he explained when Leliana tensed, tight as a wound spring. “The door is not warded from passage.”

Solas stepped away from the door, pacing around the table slowly, allowing Leliana and Josephine the opportunity to keep it between them and him. Once he stood at the Inquisitor’s side, Solas clasped his hands behind his back and waited. Leliana shared a brief glance with Josephine, then strode quickly to the door. It opened as easily as it ever had. She stuck her head out, could hear sounds from the great hall, then pulled her head back in and they vanished.

“Huh,” she said. Impressed, despite herself. “That is quite useful.”

Solas, watching her carefully, did not respond.

“All right then, Master Solas, er-” Josephine stumbled on his name.

“Solas is fine, Lady Montilyet.”

“Master Solas. In your own words. Who are you? What do you want? What are your plans for the Inquisition?”

Solas glanced at Ellana, who shrugged. “I told them what happened at Mythal’s Temple. The orb, Abelas, Morrigan and the Well, Corypheus. Told them a _little_ about Fen’Harel. Might want to start there.”

Solas bowed his head for a moment, considering. Then he straightened, and began to speak.

“By the time the Pantheon was fully formed, there were twenty-one of us. Not a single one gods; just powerful mages. But we became greedy for power. Ten wanted to ascend to godhood, a lie that would change citizens of our...countries...to worshippers. Nothing other than a cultural shift, but a powerful one when seen through the eyes of the masses. The other ten wanted to step down completely, retire to _uthenara_ \- the eternal sleep - and raise up new leaders of the People to occupy the Pantheon. I was in the middle. Neither desiring of godhood, nor yearning for death, I found myself a part of, yet separate from, both camps.” He paused, then jumped forward in time. “After the rebellion, the Forgotten Ones were cast down into the _uthenara_ they desired, and the Pantheon ascended to godhood. They made slaves of the people the Forgotten Ones had ruled, and I began a quieter rebellion. I freed as many as I could, but there were so _many,_ and I am but one man. When Elgar’nan murdered his wife, it threw me into a rage. I had just discovered that the Pantheon was stealing the immortality of the People.” Josephine made to speak, but Solas held up his hand, forestalling her words. “I banished the members of the Pantheon, and entered a timed version of _uthenara,_ set to wake in one thousand years.”

“So you’re _not_ a god,” Leliana said in satisfaction.

“I said as much,” the Inquisitor frowned.

“You did, my lady,” Josephine confirmed. “But it means much more, coming from him.”

“To sleep, I had to pour my power into a vessel,” Solas continued, as if they hadn’t spoken. “But after sleeping so long, I could not access the power. I wandered the world, learning, gathering my strength. When Corypheus stole my orb, I was unconcerned. He would not be able to unlock it, and when I was strong enough, I would return and take it from him.”

“That is _not_ what happened,” Leliana said.

Solas sighed. “No. It is not. But it _is_ why I approached you, after the conclave was destroyed. I knew that only the orb contained the power of such destruction. And only the power of a Dreamer would be able to rip open the fade. Somehow, he had opened it.”

“Why didn’t you say something then?” Leliana asked.

“Would you have believed me? You barely trusted me when I claimed to be an apostate. Would you have let me near Ellana at all if I’d told you that it was _my_ power that scarred her hand, _my_ talent that sundered the veil?”

“Did you come here intending to seduce the Inquisitor?” Josephine demanded, eyes hard as flint.

“Actually, Josie, _I_ chased _him.”_ Ellana said with pride. “He wanted nothing to do with me at first. Too Dalish. And he _refused_ to get into a relationship with me. Said he had secrets, lies, that he would not be with me unless he could tell me the truth.”

“That did not put you off?” Josephine asked, clearly puzzled.

Ellana shrugged. “I have secrets of my own. None this big, but I have them. I appreciated his honesty. And I knew that to earn his trust would be a rare treasure. I was intrigued.”

“So you haunted her dreams,” Leliana said, clearly disapproving.

“I did. To gain her trust, to earn enough good will that she would _listen_ when I told her who I was, instead of jumping to conclusions.” The look Solas shot them was scorching, and both of the women flushed in shame. “We would not be having this conversation if I did not truly, _truly_ love Ellana. It would have been far easier for me to simply take the orb and leave. I did not have to unlock it and strike Corypheus down. Both Abelas and Morrigan possessed the power and knowledge to unlock the eluvian. And I am certain the witch would have drunk from the well no matter what _anyone_ had to say on the matter. But, as the Inquisitor said, I am much more useful to you this way. I have knowledge that none alive can claim, and now, finally, the power to make use of it. Corypheus _cannot_ be allowed to enter the fade physically. I am not the only Dreamer alive, and if he were to find even _one,_ and steal their power as he sought to steal mine…” Solas shuddered. “The fade is a reflection of this world. But this world is also _affected_ by the fade. Should he warp the fade the way he desires, he could very well make the physical world a place uninhabitable by any living thing. I once banished my own brother to keep the People safe. I can certainly do no less to keep the _world_ safe.”

Solas paused, allowing the women to absorb everything he had said. Then he continued. “As far as my plans for the Inquisition, I have none. Save that which you have already claimed: the destruction of Corypheus. After, I hope to make a land for the People, as the Inquisitor does. A place where the elves can become elvhen again. But I do not need the Inquisition to make that possible.”

Lavellan stepped forward, shifting from leader to friend. “Does it matter what his name used to be? This is _Solas._ Occasionally charming, usually serious, and in possession of a frankly _alarming_ amount of fur vests.” Ellana moved around the table, her voice and body language soft, encouraging her friends to let go of their anger. “He has been helping us for more than a year. He will continue to help us. He will simply be able to help us _more.”_ She stopped, just out of arm’s reach, and begged with her friends with her eyes. _Trust me. Help me. This can be good - if you let it be._

Josephine was the one to crack first. “Oh, very well. You make some extremely eloquent points. The two of you make a very good team.”

_“Thank you,_ Josie,” Ellana’s smile was brilliant, and she turned it hopefully on Leliana.

“What of the Maker?” the Nightingale asked, one last question.

Solas shrugged. “I had never heard of such a being, before I woke from _uthenara._ The Dalish call us ‘Creators’, but even they do not think we created this world. Gave them the gifts of fire and weaving, yes. But that is more a discovery. In my time, there were no tales to explain how the People came to be. Perhaps your Maker is the truth. There is something alluring about a god who need not prove himself. No, that does not make me Andrastian. Any religion that allows Exalted Marches is not something I wish to follow. But it is as likely a story as any other I’ve heard.”

Leliana shook her head in disbelief. “Maker help me, I believe him.”

 

-

 

It had been a long day, and an even longer night. When they exited into the Great Hall and Solas took a step off to the right, Ellana snagged the fabric on his arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded of him.

Both his eyebrows went up in surprise. “To sleep?”

“Not that way, you’re not.” Ellana groused, and walked for her quarters, tugging him behind her.

“Inquisitor, I really do not think-”

“Good.” she said in satisfaction, opening the door and tugging him through it. She closed it solidly, and warded the entrance. “No more thinking tonight.”

“Ellana…”

“Solas,” she said, turning and leaning against the door, her arms folded across her chest, the enthusiastic mask dropping to reveal her exhaustion. _“Vhenan._ I am so very tired. It has been an _extremely_ long day. All I want to do is go upstairs, fall into bed, and not wake up for two or three days. And I’d really like to have you there with me while I sleep. But I have no energy to argue with you right now. Stay, or go. But I’m going upstairs.”

She made to brush past him, but he caught her gently in his arms. “I simply wished to let you sleep in peace. But if you desire me at your side, then there is nowhere else in this world I would prefer to be.”

She smiled, leaned against him, tilted her head up to kiss his throat. “Thank you. I think I needed to hear you say that. Fen’Harel is...intimidating.”

He chuckled, and the two of them made their way slowly up the stairs. “Perhaps now you know how it feels to stand beside you. The Herald of Andraste cuts _quite_ the dashing figure.”

She snorted, but did not argue.

“I have spoken to Blackwall. He has agreed to keep my original identity to himself,” Solas informed the Inquisitor.

“He didn’t object?”

“Not too much. He understands how much of a target Skyhold would become, should my original identity be known.”

Ellana nodded. “I’m still not sure if the Dalish would try to kill you, or just run away. Not to mention all the Andrastians who wouldn’t listen long enough to hear ‘not a god’ before they started screaming for your blood.”

“All situations I’d rather avoid,” Solas said.

“Agreed.” Ellana leaned in, and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. “So, the only ones that know are Feynriel and I, plus Blackwall, Josie, and Leliana.”

“And Morrigan,” Solas reminded her.

Ellana grimaced, “and Morrigan. Do you think she will be a problem?”

Solas shook his head, “not tonight. She will retreat, consider the revelation from all angles before acting. We have the grace of a few days.”

“Are you going to tell Cullen?”

Solas considered her question. “You believe I should?”

“I’m not sure, honestly. It seems lopsided, having two of my three advisors know your name. Then again, of all of them, Cullen will react the worst.”

“Perhaps sleep will make the answer clearer,” Solas offered. “We can make a decision in the morning.”

Ellana nodded.

No more words were said between them as they prepared for bed. Both of them prefered to sleep naked, when allowable, and they stripped without any thought of enticement. They slid under the covers, and Ellana curled up in his arms, their feet tangling together.

“You saw Abelas settled?” she whispered into the night.

“I did.” Solas kissed her head, tucking her into his shoulder. “The quartermaster was not happy with me requisitioning so many bedrolls, but the sentinels will sleep in comfort tonight. If you don’t mind, I would like you to come with me tomorrow when I go to see them.”

“Of course,” Ellana said, her words trailing off into a yawn.

“Sleep, _vhenan._ I will see you in your dreams.”

_“Ar lath ma.”_

_“Ar lath ma.”_

 

-

 

The next morning, Solas guided Ellana through the Great Hall and out into the gardens. She followed him, bemused, as he took her into the small space that had been converted into a chapel - complete with a statue of Andraste.

“Abelas and fifty of his elvhen are hiding in here?”

“Inquisitor, I fear I have not been completely honest with you,” Solas said, utterly unrepentant.

Ellana made to stagger, clutching on hand to her chest while the other was used on the back of one of the benches to keep her upright. “Say it isn’t so!” she wailed.

He chuckled, and gestured for her to follow as he stepped behind the statue. There was a small walking space, likely left for cleaning, and he stopped directly in the middle, facing the wall.

“I really am missing something,” Ellana admitted, standing beside him. “What’s so special about this wall?”

“It is special for not being a wall.” He reached out with one hand, touched the stone, and it rippled.

Ellana gasped, watching as the rippling spread up, down, sideways. And wherever it had passed, the wall was replaced with shimmering reflection. “It’s an eluvian!” she cried in delight. “And not Morrigan’s. Has it been here all along?”

Solas nodded, enjoying the expressions that flew across her face. “I never mentioned it before, having no way to explain my knowledge of how to unlock it. Fade dreams can only teach so much, and I dared not overuse the ruse.”

“I would have believed anything you’d told me,” Ellana admitted. “Where does this one lead? The crossroads again?”

“No. Just the aerie. Or stables.” Solas gestured for her to go first.

Ellana stepped through and was greeted by fifty pairs of eyes that all turned to stare at her at once. Abelas and his elvhen stood in small groups, or lounging in small half-moon depressions in the stone floor. The back half of the left wall had shelves carved into its face, while the far end of the room was nothing more than a ledge, jutting out into open air. Beyond that…

“Is that Skyhold?” Ellana asked. “We must be up on one of the mountains.”

“Indeed,” Solas said, as the room’s occupants returned to their conversations, the low murmur rising once more in the room. “This used to house gryphons.”

Ellana’s eyes began to shine as she thought of it, but their conversation was cut short as Abelas approached them.

“Good morning,” he greeted them, sketching a bow.

“Good morning, Abelas. I hope you and your people slept well?” Ellana inquired.

“We passed the night peacefully.” He turned to Solas, “my lord, the hunters were wondering if they would be permitted to track in these woods.”

Solas smiled in delight. “I am not the person to whom this question should be addressed. Inquisitor Lavellen here rules these lands. All inquiries should be addressed to her.”

Abelas turned to face the Inquisitor fully, his expression quite startled. _“Ma serranas,_ my lady Inquisitor. I meant no offence.” He bowed deeply, deep enough to come off as subservient.

“Abelas,” Ellana reached out with one hand to his shoulder, gently urging him upright. “I do not rule you. You, and your people, are here as my guests. I would love for you to stay, to help me against Corypheus _and_ as Fen’Harel and I try to rebuild the elvhen. But you are required to do neither. I know you serve Mythal. That your first duty and loyalty is to her. And I would not seek to strip you of that.”

She paused, trying to see how he was taking her words. A quiet murmur, and she knew that Solas was translating her words to the room. She angled her body so she spoke to both Abelas, and the listening elvhen.

“Much has changed in the years you defended the Well. The elvhen have fallen far. You look down upon those that are left, see us as little better than chattel. I understand how you might have come to that conclusion.” She lifted her chin, defiant in the face of their impressions. “But you are wrong. We wander the lands without home, true. But we are free in our wanderings. There are those that are held by the _shemlin_ , servants or slaves in their homes. But they rebel in large and small ways all the time. Our spirit is not broken, simply bruised. I do not ask that you believe my words. Only that you seek the truth of it for yourself.

“Fen’Harel has said that Mythal lives. But she has never once answered my people's prayers, though they worship her still. I don’t know what that means. Perhaps she, like you, does not consider us part of the People.” She turned slowly in place, meeting as many eyes as she could. “You are still sworn to her service, but you are no longer chained to her temple. All the lands here, for a three day walk, are mine to command. Hunt freely, of whatever you wish. The hold is mind, as are all its peoples. Join the tables and eat of our food, drink of our wines and ale. Find a room, sleep. Or leave, if that is your desire. Go in peace, to do as you see fit.” She completed the circle, and looked at Abelas once again. “Your life is your own.”

Abelas stared at her for a long moment, face inscrutable. Then he went down on one knee, head bowed to touch his kneecap, the elvhen behind him following in a wave. _“Ma serran-en, Asha’hanin.”  Our thanks, Lady of Glory._

“Abelas…”

The sentinel stood, the others behind him as well, and the tension and deep respect dissipated with a wave of Abelas’ hand. A few elvhen nodded, took up bows, and left via a steep path out the side of the cave mouth that Ellana had overlooked.

Solas finally stepped forward, to address the head sentinel. “A few things your people should know, before heading out into the world. Fen’Harel is a cursed name. The People have forgotten why the Pantheon was banished, and fear the Dread Wolf as a demon come to eat their children. The _vallaslin_ is worn by the Dalish wanderers. It is a sign of adulthood, nothing more. And magic is greatly feared by all - there is a sect of _shemlin_ who have learned how to reinforce reality, to nullify your hold on the veil and temporarily sever your connection to the Beyond. Beware of anyone in armor bearing the image of a downturned sword. Their holy smite is enough to leave you staggering. The red templars hold such abilities.”

Abelas frowned. “You are seen as evil?” he asked incredulously.

“Ah, but I am not Fen’Harel. Here, my name is Solas, and I am a simple wanderer who studies the Beyond in my dreams,” he said with a knowing smile.

The edges of Abelas’ lips curled up. “I will warn the others. Thank you for sharing your knowledge, Solas.” Abelas bowed slightly, “by your leave, Asha’hanin,” and moved away to speak in a low voice to some of the others.

Ellana laughed as he walked away. “Oh, I like him.”

 

-

 

They returned to Skyhold quietly, after assuring the sentinels again that they were welcome at any table there, stepping from the chapel side by side - closer than friends, but not touching like lovers would.

“Inquisitor!”

Leliana came running up from the left, skidding to a halt.

“Leliana? What’s wrong?” Lavellan asked, instantly on the alert. She’d never seen the spymaster so worked up.

“The eluvian! It’s active! Morrigan’s son ran through it, and she went in after him, screaming about Flemeth. But we _killed_ Flemeth, I was there!”

“Flemeth?” Ellana asked in shock. “Asha’bellanar?”

Ellana and Solas shared a look, and took off running for the room just off the garden where Morrigan had her eluvian propped up against a wall. Sure enough, it was glittering with inner light, its surface rippling slightly with power. Solas approached it carefully, hand outstretched. It hovered over the surface, not quite touching, while his other ghosted along the metal framework, fingers flexing slightly.

“It has been warped,” he announced. “It no longer leads to the crossroads, but to the Beyond.” He turned to look at the two women who hovered anxiously behind him. “I must go through, something is happening. The spirits are screaming at me, but I cannot hear…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“I’m coming, too,” the Inquisitor said, stepping up beside him.

“Of that, I had no doubt,” Solas said with a soft smile. He turned to Leliana. “I will close it after we pass through. As soon as it returns to glass, smash it.”

“Won’t that leave you trapped?” Leliana objected.

“I am never trapped in the fade,” Solas reminded her.

Leliana’s face set in a determined frown, and she nodded. “Go quickly. Be safe.”

Ellana stepped forward, grasped one of Leliana’s hands tightly in her own. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

The two elvhen turned and walked into the Beyond.

 

-

 

Morrigan stood in the fade, gasping in wonder and concern. “Kieran!” she called, running a few steps before turning and spinning to shout in a different direction. “Kieran!”

“Stop, Lady Morrigan. Lest you draw the attention of the unsavory.”

Morrigan whirled in place to find the Inquisitor and Fen’Harel walking up to her standing calmly side-by-side. “Do not think to order me, _Dread Wolf._ I am not one of your elves to fear you so.”

“Would that more shared your opinions,” Fen’Harel said. “Even so, cease your calls. You haven’t the skill to drive off the demons you summon.”

“My son is here, called by my _mother._ How he cast the eluvian into the fade, I do not know. Such an act would require tremendous power.”

“Not as much as you might think, Lady Morrigan,” Fen’Harel told her. “There are already those that are lost to the Beyond. Linking from the crossroads to one of those requires skill, yes. But the power needed would not be so very great.”

“I do not _care_ about your blathering, Wolf.” Morrigan snapped. “I must find my son. We stand _in the fade,_ and he has been summoned by the most fearsome thing you can immagine.”

“Asha’bellanar is your mother,” Ellana said, not quite a question. “We have tales of her. The woman of many years.”

“She is more than an old crone, Inquisitor,” Morrigan spat.

Fen’Harel’s head came up, and he looked around alertly. “Surely not-?” then he laughed and it was a harsh, bitter sound. “It is truly a day of surprises.” He looked at the women. “Your son is not far, Lady Morrigan. As is your mother. They are but a short walk away.”

He lead them down paths and around corners, and after they had passed another eluvian, dark and unusable, they came upon a clearing. Kieran stood, Flemeth kneeling before him, drawing some sort of magic from her and into himself.

“Mother!” Kieran called, cutting off the connection with Flemeth.

“Ah, the wayward daughter returns,” Flemeth said, standing gracefully to her feet.

“Give him back!” Morrigan demanded, storming up but stopping well short of the witch who had kidnapped her son. “He is not for you!”

Flemeth ignored her. “And you’ve brought friends. How rude not to introduce them. You may call me Flemeth.”

“I am Ellana Lavellan,” the Inquisitor said, stepping forward. She paused, allowing Solas to introduce himself however he wished, but he remained silent.

“Nothing?” Flemeth asked, sounding genuinely hurt. “No word of greeting for an old friend?”

“What would you have me say?” Solas asked with a painful lift of his shoulders. “What words are there to be shared between us? You know as well as I that time does not ease all pains. And this one runs deep indeed.”

Morrigan and Ellana stared back and forth between Flemeth and Solas, confusion writ upon their features.

Kieran, understanding more, watched with glee. “Oh, good!” he said, clapping his hands once with enthusiasm. “I was hoping to see this!”

Solas looked away from Flemeth to lock eyes with the boy. “And who are you, living in the skin? What ancient name do you claim as your own?”

“Urthemiel,” the boy said proudly.

Pain flickered across Solas’ face, before he carefully tucked it away. “Ah. Well met, Urthemiel.”

“What _is_ this?” Morrigan cried, unwilling to be ignored. “Mother!”

“Hush, child. Do not cry so. I mean the boy no harm.” Flemeth said in a surprisingly soothing tone.

“You cannot lie to me, _Flemeth._ I have read your grimoire. I know what you seek, how you have extended your life for years beyond counting. You seek to use him, since I am out of your grasp. But you cannot have him! His fate is greater than that as one of your pawns.” Morrigan gestured wildly, her movements harsh with passion.

“You think yourself beyond my reach? Perhaps, a few days past, that might have been the case. But now…” she made a gesture, and lines of light, sweeping down in the pattern of a familiar _vallaslin_ across Morrigan’s brow and nose flashed with brilliance, causing the witch to gasp and stumble.

Kieran frowned, turned to Flemeth. “That was mean,” he chided as a child would.

“It was,” Flemeth nodded gently, while Morrigan strove to get a hold of herself. “But necessary. It was always and ever the only way she learned.”

“Who,” Morrigan gasped, peering up at her mother from where she was hunched over on her knees, panting. “Who _are_ you?”

“What does the well tell you, girl?” Flemeth asked softly.

Morrigan closed her eyes fleetingly, listening to something only she could hear. “They say…Mythal.” Her eyes flashed open in fear. “They say you are Mythal!”

Ellana’s head whipped around to stare at Solas, who only nodded his head. “I fear we are in over our heads, Morrigan,” she poke into the sudden silence. “We are surrounded by the ancient elvhen who once ruled Elvehenan as gods.”

“I fear no _‘god’,”_ Morrigan spat, though she still could not seem to stand.

“You drank from the Well of Sorrows, dear girl. You have given yourself in service to me for eternity. I need not be a god to command you.” Flemeth reached out with her hand.

_“Mythal.”_ Solas spoke in a tone of command, more like the Fen’Harel of tales than Ellana had ever seen him before. “Have you taken on so much of your husband’s vengeance that you must conquer your own child?”

“Vengence? You dare speak to me of _vengeance?_ She, who had been Mythal, murdered by her husband’s hand - she came to me as I suffered the same fate. She saved me, and I swore I would avenge her!” Flemeth abruptly lost the calm facade she’d been wearing, cracked down the middle by Solas’ words.

“And lost your soul in the process!” Solas snapped. “Have you forgotten what we fought for? The battles we waged, the secrets _you_ shared? And now you give it up - for what? To force your spirit upon your daughter for the once-more chance to slay Elgar’nan? He is _dead,_ Mythal. Dead for almost a thousand years. What vengeance is there to be gained in chasing his ghost?”

“Do not lie to me, _old friend._ I know the wonders you wrought in the city. They live, or sleep in _uthenara._ Either way, I will find him, and he will suffer for his betrayal.” Flemeth snarled.

Solas shook his head. “I see you fell for the lie, just as all the others did. They are _dead,_ Mythal. Dead as the others. Only the Forgotten Ones,” he cast a glance at Kieran, who giggled in wicked glee, “exist, and their mad songs call to the darkspawn, who dig them up and set them free to wreak havoc on this world. Do you seek to strike _them_ down as well? Are there _any_ who are exempt, any you will not crush, in your lust for blood?”

“I do not believe!” Flemeth cried.

Solas went still for a long moment. “Let the boy and his mother go. Return them to Skyhold.” He looked at Flemeth, eyes burning green, “and I will show you what Pride has wrought.”

Flemeth was filled with violent hope, “You will take me-”

“Release them, Mythal! It is not a negotiation.”

Flemeth drew herself up, reassembled the mask of control across her features. “You may go, child,” she spoke to both Morrigan and Kieran.

Solas’s laugh was as dark and wicked as blood magic. “I did not ask. Release them of your own free will, or I will _take_ them from you, as I took all the others.”

Mythal’s shoulders straightened, her chin raising in indignation “I shall not-”

Solas snarled, and it was the Dread Wolf who spoke. “How quickly you forget that you stand in _my_ domain. I do not speak thrice.”

Solas whirled, catching sight of Ellana for the first time since the confrontation had begun, and he faltered under her gaze. But she was looking at him with such _pride,_ that he could only answer her with a fierce grin. She _understood_ what he meant to do, and approved with ever fibre of her being.

Morrigan however, did not, and she struggled to rise to her feet. “Stay away from me, Dread Wolf! I will not allow either of you to take me or my son!”

“Calm yourself, Lady Morrigan. I shall not force anything upon you.” Solas knelt before her, and gestured to Kieran. The boy glanced at Flemeth, who was suspiciously silent, then came trotting over to sit on the floor by his mother. “I can free you from Mythal’s grasp.”

“Can you take away my dreams?” Kieran asked in his piping boy’s voice.

Solas studied him carefully. “Some of them, yes. The ones about your grandmother, for certain. But the others are not dreams, but memories. And they are a part of you. Those shall never fade.”

“Oh,” Kieran sagged for a moment, but quickly rallied. “I guess that’s all right, then.”

Solas placed a comforting hand on the boy’s head, but quickly turned to Morrigan when she let out a wordless sound of denial. “Lady Morrigan. You should have asked Abelas about the well before you partook. You have sworn yourself to her service by drinking of its essence - the memories and knowledge of all the slaves that came before.”

“Slaves!” Morrigan cried.

“That’s what the _vallaslin_ is, Morrigan. A slave’s mark.” Ellana said, kneeling beside Solas and gesturing at her face. “He freed me from Elgar’nan. He can free you from Mythal.”

“I have no such brandings.”

“The _vallaslin_ is more than a tattoo. It is a geas, a command. Your every action from now until your death, whether you know it or not, will be for the glory of Mythal. The blood writing has lost much of its sting, with the death of the ones it was tied to. But in your case, Mythal is still very much alive, and so too are your bindings.” Solas explained gently. “You felt it, didn’t you, when she commanded your obescence. The threads tugging at your thoughts, the reigns upon your face. It is why you cannot look her in the eye, why you cannot force yourself to stand.”

“And you would free me from her control? Out of the goodness of your heart?” Morrigan scoffed. “You? Fen’Harel? The Trickster and Betrayer? There is always some hidden catch. I’ve learned that lesson well.”

“Solas wouldn’t-” Ellana objected, but he cut her off.

“You are right, of course. Nothing is ever truly free.”

Ellana sat back on her heels to stare at him in utter incomprehension.

But Morrigan seemed to relax at his pronouncement. “I knew it. What are your conditions, Wolf?”

He stared at her, considering. “Many of the eluvians are dark and unusable. Corrupted or damaged or lost. I know you possess the knowledge to repair them. Use it. Fix the eluvians; repair the crossroads.”

Morrigan frowned. “What you speak of is the work of a lifetime.”

“Better than one spent in eternal servitude. It is a fair price,” Solas responded cooly. Morrigan opened her mouth, but Solas spoke, overriding her words. “Do not object so strongly, Lady Morrigan. I know this was a goal you held long before you and I met. Is my condition so much worse than a life as a slave?”

Morrigan seemed to sag, “No, ‘tis not. You speak true. I will cleanse the eluvians, as many as I am able, until all are repaired or my life is lost.”

“Mother!” Keiran cried.

“Is there another price for my son, Trickster?” Morrigan asked, weary.

“No. Urthemiel will exact his own out of the boy’s tender flesh,” Solas said sadly.

“Cast your spell, then.”

Ellana watched, outside the magic, as Solas held his hands up to Morrigan’s face as he had to hers that night so long ago. His magic swelled, soft and blue, and Ellana knew that it would be cool as a summer’s breeze against the witch’s skin. His hands moved much slower across Morrigan’s features, the golden lines of light appearing on the witch’s forehead once more. But with every inch his hands slid upward, the golden light weakened, and as his hands ghosted over Morrigan’s head, Ellana could hear the human sigh in relief.

_“Ar lasa mala revas,”_ Solas told her gently, before turning and doing the same to Kieran. The lines of light were faint upon the boy, and in only moments he, too, was free. _“Ar lasa mala revas.”_

 

-

 

With the eluvian they had come in through smashed by Leliana, Solas helped Morrigan to her feet and lead her past a silently fuming Flemeth to an eluvian glittering in the green light of the fade.

“So _this_ is how she got here,” Morrigan mused. “Tis good to know that she is not also a Fadewalker.” She cast a sly glance at Solas, who refused to be goaded into speaking.

He worked with the eluvian a moment, appeared to be tuning it to something. Morrigan tried to follow what he was doing, but it was subtle, careful. Just as she was beginning to grasp something, he stopped and she lost the thread.

He turned to her, giving no indication that he had noticed what she’d attempted. She didn’t believe that face for a moment.

“This will lead you back to Skyhold. Once. Do not attempt to enter it again, and do not attempt to open it. You will find yourself quite badly hurt, and unable to flee, should you do so.” He stepped to the side, allowing her and Kieran access to its shining surface. _“Dirthara-ma.”_ He told her.

Morrigan sneered and, grasping Kieran’s hand tightly, stepped through the eluvian. It went dark afterwards.

“ ‘May you learn’? ” Ellana asked as they walked back to Flemeth, who was waiting impatiently.

“I gave her fair warning about the eluvian. But she will not listen. She will attempt to force it open, likely using her promise to me as justification. We will have to free her from the containment when we return.” Solas told her, unconcerned.

“Don’t hold a lot of faith in her, do you?” Ellana asked in amusement.

Solas drew her to a stop when they were still a good distance from Flemeth. Even so, he dropped his tone to an intimate whisper. _“Vhenan._ I have faith in no one but you. Not even myself.”

Ellana melted at his words. “Sweet talker.” She grew serious. “Why _did_ you ask that of Morrigan? I thought you _hated_ slavery in _all_ its forms. Forcing her to do something for you for the rest of her life is no better than the control Mythal had over her.”

“If I had no conditions, she would not have trusted me. If the condition had been easy, or short-term, she would have suspected duplicity. By choosing something so difficult and time-consuming - by essentially forcing her into a position she sees as equal to the one she is escaping - she believes this to be the whole of it.” He shrugged. “She will drag her feet, restore perhaps one or two, and then vanish into them, never to be seen again. I have no hold over her, and have no desire to draw her back. She does a little of my work for me, and I get just that much longer with you.”

“You’re going to leave?” Ellana demanded.

“I do not wish to, _vhenan._ But surely you see it as inevitable? If we are to hold land against attackers, and you know another Exalted March is a very real possibility, we must have the ability to travel. To transport goods and people to and from danger zones. An eluvian transporting any other than elvhen leaves the traveler weakened and vulnerable. They _must_ be restored. And I am one of the few who can do so.” Solas explained urgently.

“And this means I cannot come with you? I do not accept that.” Ellana crossed her arms.

“Who will lead the Inquisition if you do? Who will convince the humans to grant us land - to free Tevinter slaves and allow passage of the People to the country you have earned us?”

“I…”

“Ellana. My love. Now is not the time for this. We are, once again, physically in the fade. And _this time,_ I will be taking us deeper than any living, _sane,_ creature has gone before.” Solas reached out, and Ellana twined her fingers with his.

“Oh, Creators, I knew it. We’re going to the Black City.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like each of these chapters is a succession of cliff hangers, doesn't it? I didn't plan it this way to torment you, I promise! I just had to make the cut somewhere. And before they go to the City is a good spot. Don't fret. You'll only have to wait a few days.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The City, the Hold, the Field

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY do I have such a fondness for italics? What is wrong with me? Ugh.

Flemeth pounced as soon as they were within speaking distance again. “We go _now,_ Fen’Harel. You have already extracted your payment.”

Solas nodded, and tightened his hold on Ellana’s hand, “be cautious, Mythal. The City is no place of peace. The madness of the Void stalks its halls.”

“I do not fear the Void, Fen’Harel. I have faced its madness before,” Mythal told him.

“I recall Andruil saying the same thing,” Solas snapped. Then he shook his head. “Come. It is a long way to the City, even for me. We will need to take the fastest route.”

Solas let go of Ellana’s hand and shifted into the form of the wolf. He crouched, and after a moment, she climbed on his back, fisting her fingers in his fur. He looked over his shoulder, and Ellana did the same.

_“Fenhis lasa!”_ she cried, flinching violently and almost tumbling off the far side of the wolf’s back. Behind them, silent as a grave, Mythal had morphed into the form of a high dragon, her head the size of the wolf’s whole body.

The dragon rumbled a laugh, and the wolf growled a warning. Ellana just curled over Fen’Harel’s back and breathed into his fur. It was one thing to accept that Flemeth was Asha’bellanar. And it wasn’t _too_ far to accept that Asha’bellanar was also Mythal. But it was quite another to be face-to-face with a high dragon and not be fighting for her life. S lot had happened in the last two days. The Temple of Mythal, Solas getting his power back, Corypheus dying _twice,_ the advisors finding out about Solas’s original identity, Morrigan and Keiran, Mythal alive but not…

The wolf began to move, smooth motions underneath her hands. Behind, a gust of wind and the scrape of claws signaled the dragon taking flight. Ellana shivered, huddled close, and the fur beneath her hands warmed. She couldn’t help but smile. Fen’Harel cared for her, in a thousand small ways. He hated tea, but usually had a cup waiting for her in the mornings. He knew how much she hated the cold, and had cast a permanent warming spell over her bed - and then kept casting it as she seemed unable to decide which type of bed she wanted. He often massaged her feet and legs as they talked, easing the soreness the built up from all the running to and fro she did. Perhaps the most telling thing of all: he had trusted her with the truth of himself.

It was intimidating, but also telling, to see him interacting with the ancients. He accepted the respect of Abelas and the sentinels, but did not demand anything of them. He asked for their help, offered some of his own, but did not seem upset when they refused. He still deferred to her in everything that had to do with the Inquisition, and even pointed the sentinels her way. He _listened_ when they argued, gave her words the same weight as he took his own. Did not see her as lesser, though there was such a great disparity in their power. And now?

Now, he was taking her to the Black City with Mythal, having never even asked if she would return to Skyhold. He’d already known that she would refuse. Was it possible to fall in love with someone twice? Because it felt like she was.

She did not know how long they ran, lost in her ruminations as she was, but eventually the blow of wind slowed, and Ellana sat up to see them no closer to the Black City than they’d ever been. But they _had_ shifted location in the fade. It looked no different than any other bleak, desolate stretch, but there was the sense of having traveled long distances. The clearing was just large enough for the dragon to land, and Ellana slipped off Solas’s back as Mythal made the shift back to human. Solas shimmered as well, and as soon as he could speak, he turned to Flemeth.

“Give us a few minutes?” he asked politely.

Mythal inclined her head, and walked away to disappear around an outcropping of rock.

Ellana expected Solas to turn to her, but instead he simply stood still, frowning in concentration. A spirit wafted up after a few moments, and he had a conversation with it in some sort of chiming language she’d never heard before. They seemed to come to an arrangement, and only then did he move to speak to the Inquisitor.

“Ellana,” he said, voice grave. “I am about to ask something very difficult of you. It will require an immense amount of trust.”

“Whatever it is, yes.” Ellana said, taking his hand. “I trust you.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head even as he clung to her fingers. “You must hear me out before you decide.” He took a deep breath, “you remember my theory about the blights?”

“I remember,” Ellana replied, voice soft.

“Then you know that the City is more dangerous than any other place in existence. That its very nature has been so warped that it has started a cycle of madness and destruction that has reigned for more than a thousand years. _This,_ not the deep roads, is the source. Of the blight, of the darkspawn, of the red lyrium.” He paused, seemed to gather his courage. “I will have some defenses, because it is a thing of my creation. Because I have been here once before and know what to expect. Mythal...she has already been warped. By hatred, by her own death, by the continuous cycle of rebirth in each of her children’s bodies. But even still, she has fought the Void before and won. She will be safe - for a time. But you…” He reached out, love and concern in his gaze, and cupped her cheek in his hand. “You have nothing. Given a century or so, you would have the knowledge and experience to fight off the voices. But you haven’t the luxury of time. And this is not something I can protect you from.”

“Solas, you’re scaring me.”

His smile was a fleeting, broken thing. “Good. That is my intent. I want you to understand how very _dangerous_ this place is. How you will lose yourself in the madness - and never come back out.” He stepped forward, tilted her head, and pressed his forehead to hers. “I cannot lose you, _vhenan._ You are _everything_ to me.”

She whimpered, more frightened than she’d ever been, to see him like this, and she reached up to grasp his arm with her free hand. “Solas…”

“There is one way to protect you, to shield your mind from the madness within.”

“Tell me,” she urged.

“Tranquility.”

Every muscle in Ellana’s body froze, every thought ground to a halt as one single word echoed endlessly in her mind. _Tranquility. Tranquility._

He wanted to sever her connection to the fade. Remove her emotions. Take away _everything_ that she was. “Why would you say such a thing?” The voice was hers, so she must have asked, but she had no memory of forming the words. Just an internal scream of fear and rage in her mind, rapidly gaining strength and volume.

“Because is is the only truth I have in this moment. It is the price of entrance to the City. I will not take you inside otherwise - I will not risk your mind.”

“And tranquility will keep me safe? Could you love me once everything that made me who I am is gone?” Ellana barked. A sound followed; a laugh or a cry, she was not sure. The screaming grew, blocking out his words. All she heard, all she thought: tranquility.

“It would not be permanent,” he assured her, but she did not hear for _tranquility._ “The spirit of Love has already promised to bring you back, once we return. And while you would remember the things you saw while in the City, they would not touch you. You would be safe from the madness.”

“The reversal process doesn’t always work!” she cried, _tranquility_ overriding her thoughts. She struggled to get out of his grasp, and he released her instantly, allowing her to break free without effort. She wrapped her arms around her stomach as if she’d been stabbed, hunching over with the pain. “You want to steal everything I am!”

He fell to his knees before her, staring up at her face. “Yes,” he admitted, and it was like glass in her heart. “It is the only way. I offer it, not because it is what I want, but because you deserve the truth in all things. Tranquility will keep you safe. Love will bring you back - this I _guarantee._ But you must undergo the process, or I _will not_ take you into the City. Because then you will truly be lost.”

She _screamed._ A sound of heartbreak and betrayal. Rage and sorrow. Her love, her _heart,_ the one most important to her in all the world wanted to _strip_ the very essence of who she was from her mind. “Why!” she screamed, and he flinched away.

“To keep you _safe!”_ he yelled, his voice a roar of agony. “I will not lose you to your damn stubbornness and curiosity! I will bend to you on almost everything, Ellana, but I _will not bend on this!”_

She collapsed on her knees, shocked beyond words. She had never heard him raise his voice. Ever. Not in anger, not in passion, and _certainly_ not to her.

“Ellana.” He said, and she was finally listening to his words, the echo of _tranquility_ quiet for the first time. “I _do not_ want this. My desire is to send you away, back to Skyhold. Far, _far_ from the madness of this place. But you are strong, and you are courageous, and I will not lie to you anymore. I hold too much respect for you to do that. So I tell you: there _is_ a way for you into the City. One that will allow you to keep your mind and self intact. But _do_ _not_ mistake that as my holding some sort of twisted desire to make love to a puppet!”

She gasped and leaned forward, hands braced on the ground, breathing harshly. He reached out with one tentative hand, rubbing small circles on her back.

“Nothing would make me happier,” he told her, voice gone quiet again, “than if you were to tell me ‘no.’ I would send you away within a heartbeat, safe from the thing that I must now do. But I will _never_ remove your choices. The decision is yours.” He removed his hand, stood up, and moved away. Giving her space to think and breathe without him.

Tranquility. The word itself brought up some of her deepest fears. She had seen the tranquil in Haven, had brought more up to Skyhold to act as researchers and laborers. They were intelligent, but so _empty._ Less than people, they were vessels to be filled with projects, orders. They could not think for themselves, could not act independently, could not _feel._ It was that last that frightened her the most, and likely the same that would keep her safe from the madness. Was it worth it, she wondered, to see the Black City? To be tranquil, even for a short time - just the thought of it was enough to bring back the panic.

It was not a question of trust, no matter what Solas claimed. She trusted him with everything that she was - her mind stumbled over the imagery. For wasn’t that exactly what this meant? Trusting him with _literally_ everything that she was. Her mind, her emotions, her _soul._ He already had her heart - her life - how much more would she give him? Would he grant her the same power over him?

But that wasn’t right, either. He was not asking this of her out of spite, or desire for power, or for her to _prove_ her trust in him. He’d spoken plainly when stating that he did not want her to do this at all. He offered it as the only safe passage; as the only way to _keep_ her soul intact. It was a horrible price, but one she would only pay for a short time. He hadn’t even spoken until he had secured the help of a spirit to call her back. And she would not fear the tranquility while she was inside it.

It was easy, when thinking about it objectively, to see why it was such a good option. She would become tranquil, see the City, and then when they returned, Love would touch her and poof! The emotions would come back. Simple. But when she imagined _herself_ in such a position, the fear was overwhelming. She would lose herself to the tranquility - would not even care that she had. And though Solas had sworn that she would return, she could not find such faith within herself.

She was not Andrastian, had never held the Black City with any importance, and cared even less when she’d found out its _true_ purpose. Did she really desire to enter its gates so badly?

The answer, of course, was ‘no.’ She had no desire to enter the City, in and of itself. Rather, it was a desire to keep Solas from doing this dangerous thing alone. But she would not be an asset, here. Could not help him with _this_ danger. In fact, _she_ was the weak link, the one who had the greatest to lose, and nothing to gain.

Her heart settled, and she lifted her head, only just realizing that she had not moved as she considered her options. She found Solas, no more than a few feet away, staring at her with intense eyes. He had not left her alone, had not gone to speak to Mythal, even though she was an old friend that he had not seen in centuries. He had stayed with _her,_ watched over _her,_ kept her foremost in his thoughts.

Creators, but she loved him.

She sat back on her heels, still shaking a little from the intense emotions, and held out a hand to him.

He came to her instantly, taking her hand in his, and wrapping his arm around her shoulders with the other. He sat down and drew her into his lap, one hand coming up to rub soothingly behind her ear. “You have decided?” he asked with trepidation.

She nodded against his chest, allowing herself to soak up his comfort. It had been an intense swing of emotion. “Yes. Send me to Skyhold.”

_“Ma seranna, emma lath,_ ” his arms tightened around her in relief, and he bowed his head over hers, cheek to her hair, fighting the tears in his eyes. “Thank you so much, my love. I was so afraid…” he choked, fought down the ball of emotion in his throat.

"I know. I was afraid, too. I thought you wanted to make me tranquil.”

_“Never,”_ he pulled away, forcing her head up to stare fiercely into her eyes. “Never is that something I wish to see. And should that fate ever befall you, then I will take on the mantle of the Dread Wolf in truth, and every tale they tell of me shall _pale_ in comparison to what I shall do to the ones responsible.”

Ellana relaxed completely, the last small doubt falling away. “I know. Thank you.”

He kissed her then. Soft with the release of fear, tasting of the salt of tears. Her hand came up, to rub the soft spot just along his neck behind his ear, and he shivered in her arms. His arms tightened, lifted her slightly, and she tilted her head to the side a little more, sweeping his bottom lip with her tongue. He responded in kind, and she opened for him, granting him entrance. One hand cradled her head as he probed her mouth, finding the spots that made her shiver and moan. She needed this, needed the comfort of his ardor just as badly as he seemed to need to give it.

She traced small lines upon his ear and neck as he kissed her, pressing her love and gratitude into him with her touch. She flicked the tip of his ear and he growled, both admonishment and encouragement. He lifted his head, kissed her once more, fleetingly, then bit the edge of her ear. She grunted in satisfaction at his response, but pulled away before they could go any farther. This was certainly not the time or place. But there was always later - and she would ensure that there would be a later.

“I love you, _vhenan,”_ she told him in an intimate whisper, still sharing his breath. “You have stolen not just my heart, but all of me.”

He chuckled, kissed her forehead, and drew them to their feet. “I have loved you for far longer than I will ever admit.”

“Oh?” she asked coyly as he took her hand and lead her across the rocks. “Now I _must_ know. When _did_ you fall in love with me?”

“Do you think it so easy to trick the Trickster? No, _vhenan,_ you will have to try harder than that.” Solas chided, stepping around a corner.

“Oh!” Ellana said, “an eluvian! They’re _everywhere.”_

Solas chuckled and leaned down to kiss her temple. “They once spanned an empire. Every major road, temple, and meeting ground had one. Prosperous restaurants and merchants, beautiful vistas...everywhere one could wish to go boasted an eluvian. Many have fallen into the fade, but many still remain.” He reached out, pouring power into the glass. It began to glow from within, the surface shimmering to life. “There. This will take you back to Skyhold.” He gave her a grave look. “I do not know when I will return. Time is different in the fade. I might be right behind you, it may be weeks. Do not worry for me, the Beyond is my realm and nothing can harm me here. I will return to you as quickly as I am able.”

She leaned into his arms, resting her head on his chest. “I understand. I will wait for you, my love.”

He kissed her forehead, and then her lips, pouring his love into the fleeting gestures. “Go quickly,” he whispered.

She gave him a smile, and stepped through the glass.

 

-

 

The first few hours were easy. She barely even noticed their passing, so caught up was she in the business of running the Inquisition. There were diplomats to meet and decisions to make. The cook accosted her about the missing cheese wheels, Morrigan had to be freed from the basement cells, and Abelas arrived with a few of his sentinels and they wandered around Skyhold, putting everyone ill at ease.

That night she slept poorly - if at all - and she arrived at the Great Hall in a foul mood. It didn't improve as the day went on and Solas failed to appear. But Vivienne and Josephine cornered her to talk about potential lands for Enlea’sileal, Dorian had a few ideas for freeing slaves he wanted her opinion on, and Varric had a guest conveniently named Bianca that Ellana was just dying to meet. The day passed in a whirlwind of meetings and hastily grabbed meals and by the time it was over, Ellana was staggering up the stairs for her bed.

It was empty, again, and Ellana almost laughed at the way she had gotten so used to having Solas with her when she slept. They'd only been intimate for a few short weeks, she'd slept alone far longer than she'd shared a bed. How hard could it be to sleep alone again?

Harder than she'd expected, Ellana thought as she kicked off the covers to sprawl nude upon her bed, the night wind blowing cool across her skin. "Where are you, Solas?" she whispered into the dark.

Two days. Two days and she was already becoming maudlin. Pathetic.

Even so, she couldn't sleep, and Ellana threw comfortable clothes on and padded barefoot down the stairs. Through the door to the Great Hall and down to the rotunda she went, chastising herself for her childishness with each step. But she kept walking. The rotunda was dark, even the lamps along the wall extinguished for the night. Solas's settee was empty, as she knew it would be, but that didn't stop her heart from sinking - just a little. She curled up on it, wanting to be near him, and pillowed her head on her arm. She imagined that she could smell him, feel his presence. Foolish, of course. But a comforting sentiment nonetheless.

Inspiration struck, and Ellana unwound from her curled position, fumbling in the dark for the pack that was always leaning up against the legs of the settee. Sure enough, she found it. Dragging it closer, Ellana freed the closures on its front one-handed and plunged her hand inside, retrieving the first item she laid her hands on. A fur vest. Ellana rolled her eyes, even as she pulled it closer, tucking it under her chin. Of course it would be a fur vest. The man was obsessed, really.

Lips pursed in humor, Ellana slept.

 

-

 

After another two days, Ellana gathered a small party and left for the field. She absolutely _refused_ to mope about Skyhold like a lovesick fool. She was the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, and Fen’Harel’s lover. Keeper of his Heart. She could manage quite well without her significant other thank-you-very-much.

 

-

 

They returned after two weeks. Tired, muddy, and in desperate need of proper food and a good wash.

Solas had not returned.

She stayed only long enough to get a fitful night’s rest on his settee, then switched out her companions for a fresher group, and set out again.

 

-

 

She knew that he’d said weeks (and weeks was certainly bad enough) but Ellana really had been hoping that it wouldn’t actually end up being _months._ But as the days passed, Ellana knew that she would have to move on. Accept that he would return…eventually...and leave it at that. There were dragons and demons in Empris de Lion, red templars in the Western Approach, and the freemen from the Exalted Plains had fled to the Emerald Graves, and were making deals to smuggle red lyrium. So, three days after she returned to Skyhold, she set out yet again, gathering a small party and headed out to practice damage control, clearing things out before the bulk of the Inquisition could sweep in behind and hold the areas. Abelas came along, trailing behind them, his hood up and his eyes tracking everything. A few of his people had crept into Skyhold, her El’vhen’an primers in their hands as they used them to translate. A few more had vanished entirely, gone to wander the new world, she imagined. Most stayed in the aerie, and their numbers gradually swelled as the elvhen who had been abandoned to the forest made their way north from the Arbor Wilds.

Her companions were good about the long outings, and the elvhen shadowing their steps. Dorian only complained half the time, and Sera contained herself to lizards in beds only when she was drug to the deserts. She refused to speak to Abelas at all.  Iron Bull was happy with all the dragons, and Varric had no complaints at all, so long as he wasn’t out in the field with Cassandra. Vivienne never came out into the field anymore. Not since she’d taken Ellana’s pet project of Enlea’sileal on as her own. Something the Inquisitor would ever be in her debt for. She would see Vivienne installed on the sunburst throne for it, though the circle mage knew it not.

 

-

 

It had been more than two months, and though she tried to keep herself from moping, Ellana found herself turning unerringly for the place Solas had haunted so frequently in the days before she’d known his name. She never slept in her bed anymore. Without him there to fill the spaces, it was cavernous.

Ellana moved through the rotunda, her gaze lingering lovingly on the frescos Solas had painted for her. They’d just gotten back a few days ago, but she was already itching to go out again; she had never been so conscientious about fieldwork. It was foolish, but some part of her said that, if she went out and came back often enough, it would somehow hurry Solas’s return. A watched pot never boils, after all.

She trailed her hands over the items on his desk, papers half-translated and objects partially studied. There was a ocular shard sitting on his desk - one of the first they’d ever encountered in the Hinterlands. They’d discovered that they acted as keys to those strange doors in the oasis. Ellana made a note to ask Solas about them when he returned, perhaps he held a greater truth about them he would now be willing to share.

The door from the Great Hall opened, and Ellana turned around hopefully. Maybe it was-! But her face fell when Feynriel stepped through the door.

“Oh! Inquisitor! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here.” Feynriel hovered in the doorway, one foot out the door. “I’ll just leave…”

“No, come in, Feynriel. You aren’t disturbing me. Just thinking. I can do that when others are about,” she concluded mischievously.

The young man chuckled awkwardly and moved into the room. “You don’t mind…?”

Ellana shrugged. “It’s not my room.”

“That’s not what _he_ says.”

No need to ask about whom Feynriel referred.

“Oh?” Ellana asked casually, propping one hip against Solas’s table and watching Feynriel as he almost crept around the edges of the room. Why was he so frightened of her?

“He says...he says that all of Skyhold is yours. Every room and balustrade, every crack and fissure. Even its space in the fade has been marked as yours.” Feynriel’s eyes flicked to the frescos on the wall.

Ellana pinched the bridge of her nose between to fingers, praying to the Creators - maybe just Fen’Harel - for patience. A habit she didn’t think she’d ever break herself of. “Is it a Dreamer thing? I blamed it on his nature and his past, but you are just as confounding.” She looked the young man straight in his eyes, exasperation slightly coloring her tone. _“What_ are you talking about?”

And for some reason, that made him relax. “Sorry, Inquisitor. I forget that you aren’t actually a Dreamer. You stand so _brightly_ in the fade.” He grinned at her expression, “and that didn’t help. How about this?”

He moved to sit on Solas’s settee, and Ellana wondered if anyone else in Skyhold realized that this wasn’t just where Solas spent his waking hours. It was his private quarters. She’d thought, at first, that it meant he was going to be more open here, more accessible. But she now knew it for what it was, a slight thumbing of his nose at the Nightingale. _Watch me bed down at the base of your tower,_ he told her, _see me dream, search for my secrets. You will not find them._

And they hadn’t. No one had suspected him as anything more than a strange Mystic who liked to wander the fade and tell intriguing stories. Not even Leliana had guessed his identity until he had chosen to reveal it.

And Feynriel was now sitting on Fen’Harel’s bed. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing, and settled on Solas’s table as was her custom, her feet in his chair.

Feynriel frowned as he watched her. “He lets you do that?” he wondered.

Ellana laughed. “He’s tried to stop me, on occasion. Never really works. I’ve always known him as a man - and I am scared of no man.” She grinned, “now, I believe you were finally going to start making sense?”

“Yes. See, the mark on your hand,” he made a vague gesture with his hands, and Ellana finished the thought with: _his mark_. “It is made of almost pure fade essence. It’s...what makes it so powerful. And it is also what makes you so,” he frowned. “Bright is not the right word, but I don’t have one better.”

“Cole said the same thing. That the mark was bright, like staring into the sun.” Ellana offered.

“Yes, that is as good an analogy as any. It makes you more _real_ in the fade. As real as a somniari. Well, almost,” his hands gestured as he sought words, and Ellana slowly understood how hard this was for him. Like describing sight to someone born without eyes. “Dreamers aren’t more real than other mages, we just...we’re more aware? No, we’re,” he made a frustrated noise, dropping his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be so difficult to explain.”

Ellana leaned back, bracing her hands on the table. “Let me try?” He nodded eagerly, and she cleared her throat. “From the things Solas has said, and from what you’ve tried to say, I think I can understand. A little. For non-mages, the fade doesn’t really exist. They sleep, they dream, they wake. That they dream _in_ the fade is actually of little consequence. For mages, we have lucid dreams. We know we are dreaming, but other than small things, we cannot control it. Some of us,” she smiled to indicate herself, “can banish dreams altogether. But even then, all we - I - can do is return to the empty image of the fade. Dreamers,” she sighed, “now you can do all sorts of things. You can craft dreams, banish dreams, shape the fade itself. You can watch memories in the fade. Even step into another’s dream and watch or mould it as you will. I imagine that each level of interaction with the fade is represented by different connections to it. And the stronger the connection, the more ‘real’ you are there. Correct?”

“That’s….can I write that down?”

Ellana laughed. “I guess? Now, tell me what you meant about Skyhold.”

“Well, you know there are memories in the fade, impressions of events from the physical world that can be viewed by somniari - if they know what they’re doing. I’d never heard of such a thing before,” he paused minutely, “Solas taught it to me. Skyhold is old, and I wanted to dream here, view the memories. But he said it wasn’t a good idea that,” he cleared his throat, the cadence of his voice changing as he obviously mimicked Solas, “ ‘Skyhold is ancient, its battlements have stood for countless centuries, outliving all its masters. Few have lived here long, and fewer still can truly claim to have ruled it. The memories are layered, pressed together by the weight of the ones above, and it takes great skill to tease them apart again. Do not attempt to dream here, or you will lose yourself in the maze.’ ”

“Oh, yes. That sounds like him,” Ellana said, voice warm in amusement.

Feynriel grinned. “I don’t know how he did it, but the frescos here...they exist _everywhere.”_ He paused, and she gave him a confused look. “I don’t dream the memories, I’m not stupid enough to go against his advice. I did that once or twice before - he likes to laugh at me,” he grumbled. “But I have gone looking for him sometimes, and I’ll find _him_ dreaming the memories. Sometimes he stops, sometimes he invites me in and shows me what is going on. But always, if this room is in the memory, _always_ does it have these paintings.”

“Wait...what?”

“Exactly! How could frescos that he painted within the last year, be in memories from centuries ago? And another thing!” Feynriel jumped to his feet, too passionate about the topic to hold still. “This room exists in the fade. Well, I mean, sort of this room. I bet you’d see it, if you went looking. There’s a wall, round with three entrances. There’s no tower above, but these paintings are there as well!” He turned to face her, eyes bright. “Don’t you see? He’s _changed the fade!_ It’s like his meadow! But he did it from _here.”_

“Wait, stop.” Ellana held up a hand and Feynriel reigned himself in. “You’re speaking gibberish again. What meadow?”

“There’s a...construct...that I watched him create. It was when I first met him and didn’t really trust him yet. When a Dreamer shapes the fade, it only lasts so long as the Dreamer is there and exerting their will. When we wake up, it vanishes, just like a dream. But _he_ can actually change its base nature, like when the memories press upon the fabric of the Beyond. He created a meadow: green grass, trees, flowers, blue sky. There are even insects and weather. And it stays there, no matter what. He’s asleep? It’s there. He’s awake? _It’s there._ He did the same thing with the frescos. But he did it while he was painting, which means he was _awake_ and changing the nature of the fade. How he could _possibly…”_

Ellana smiled, watching the young man pace back and forth as he thought. He was no longer really talking to her, simply voicing his thoughts out loud. She leaned forward, braced her chin on her hand, and listened in amusement.

“It’s a little like that stone-fist thing he’s teaching me. But so much more complicated. That’s just...spell casting with a little somniari flair. This is...it’s…” He brought a fist to his mouth, chewing on a nail as he thought. “It’s so _delicate._ To shape it so strongly that it affects the memories. It’s pressing down through the layers of the maze, finding each instance of the room and painting the walls. It’s power, and precision, and, and…” he lifted his head to look at Ellana, eyes shining. “It’s _amazing.”_

“Is that hero-worship I detect?” Ellana teased.

Feynriel turned red as a beet. He seemed about to object, but then, “well. Maybe a little? I mean, he _is-”_ Ellana cleared her throat. “-a very powerful and experience dreamer.” He shot her an annoyed look. When Ellana grinned unrepentantly, he straightened his spine, folded his arms behind his back (channeling Solas, no doubt) and said, with as much dignity as a wounded socialite, “so that’s what he meant about Skyhold.”

Ellana tried. She really did. But standing there, unconsciously mimicking Solas’s most severe ‘insulted dignity’ pose, Feynriel looked so much like her absent lover that she couldn’t help herself. She started laughing, and then crying. Joy and sadness tangled about in her heart, and she wasn’t sure which was the stronger emotion.

“Uh...Inquisitor?” And now Feynriel was lost, unsure what to do with the Herald of Andraste laughing and crying while perched on a table like a heathen.

She waved his concern away, struggling to get a hold of herself. But it had been almost two and a half months with no word. Solas had told her not to worry, promised he’d come back. But it was difficult. The waiting and wondering. He’d made such a point of impressing upon her how dangerous the Black City was, how it was the source of all the troubles in the world. When he’d talked about it the first time, in the grotto, he’d seemed almost _scared_ of the place. Him! Fen’Harel! The oldest and strongest of the Dreamers!

Time passed differently in the fade. But how differently? Two and a half months. How long was that for him? Was it years? Decades? Or merely a few hours? How long would it take to convince Mythal that Elgar’nan was dead; how long would she insist on wandering the City’s empty halls? Would she search every nook, flip every table? Or would she be content with a quick pass-through? And what if she required other things of Fen’Harel? Favors paid back, quests fulfilled. How much power did she hold over her lover?

Part of Ellana wanted to confide in Feynriel. He was the only one who trusted Solas like she did, the only other one who he’d sought out, told the truth to. Even now, after his big reveal, only the advisors and Blackwall knew who he was.

She wanted to ask Feynriel to go looking for him.

But she knew she could not. Solas had told her - several times - that she was the only one that knew all his secrets. The only one that could. He trusted her with the truth of the orb, how it had gotten in Corypheus’ hands. No one else knew. He trusted her with the full truth of Elvhenan, and his part of its downfall. Everyone else got bare-bones facts. And she was the _only_ one who would _ever_ know the truth of the Black City.

Now it was her turn to endure.

A soft touch on her shoulder, a tender voice in her ear. Dorian stood at her side, while Feynriel quietly slipped out the back.

“Come now, Darling. Don’t cry so,” Dorian told her, wrapping his arms around her gently. “You aren’t alone.”

Ellana nodded, curled into him.

“I could cheerfully kill him for this,” Dorian murmured into her hair. “He better hope he never comes back. I don’t care if he’s some big scary monster-dreamer."

Ellana relaxed against him, taking a deep breath as she wiped away her tears. “He didn’t leave me, Dorain. We aren’t separated by anything more than space.” She laughed, “is _this_ what you think a broken heart looks like? I _miss_ him. That is all. He’ll be back, when he’d done with his mission.”

“Are you _kidding_ me? He’s been gone for months on some ‘mission’ and he’s not even sent word? No note or letter, no dream-message that he’s still alive?” Dorian was mightily insulted on her behalf. “Don’t tell me that Mr. High-and-Mighty couldn’t contact you if he wanted. He’s being obnoxious, and you know it.”

“He gave me the option of going with him,” she nuzzled into Dorian’s chest, not realizing how much she’d needed physical affection. She’d drawn away from everyone in an attempt to be strong, but had simply made herself starved for touch. “But he’s a Dreamer, and I’m not. He is going deep into the fade for answers, and he would have spent more time protecting me than actually searching. _I’m_ the one that decided to come back here. I can’t help him there, but I _can_ do things _here.”_ She tilted her head where it lay against Dorian’s chest and looked at him. “Understand?”

“And the fact that he’s not bothered to tell you that he’s alive?” Dorian persisted, unwilling to let the matter drop.

Ellana sighed, moved to pull away, but leaned against Dorian again when he refused to let her go. He rubbed a hand up and down her arm, and she wrapped an arm around his waist in return. “You sure Bull will be okay with this?” she teased.

Dorian cleared his throat awkwardly, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right,” Ellana said, drawing the word out in disbelief.

“We are not talking about my love-life, or lack there-of as the case may be, but yours. Where is your little bald hobo, Inquisitor?” Dorian demanded.

She couldn’t tell him. “I don’t know, Dorian. Elsewhere. Doing research in the fade. Hopefully getting us a powerful ally. And he’s not contacted me, because he can’t.”

Silence as he considered that. “He _can’t?”_

“No. We were together when we discovered the...problem. He offered to take me with him, while he went to solve it, but...I couldn’t. I’d only be in the way.”

“Is that what he told you?” Dorian bristled. “Because I would never-”

Ellana sighed, “it’s not an insult if it’s the truth, Dorian. Stop acting the mother hen. I’m _lonely.”_ She paused, then offered him the truth. “And horny. That’s all.”

Dorian blushed from his neck to the roots of his hair. “Ah, yes, well. I understand.” He coughed and looked away, mumbling, “should have listened to Bull.”

Ellana laughed. “Yes. You really should have. Now,” she kissed Dorian’s cheek and pulled away, hopping down from the table and straightening her clothes self-consciously. “We need to get back out on the road. There are reports of darkspawn at Gryphon Keep. Cullen’s men have built a bridge across the acid wastes to where they seem to be coming from. I want to go seal the entrance before anymore escape.” She paused, “maybe I shouldn’t have banished the Wardens. Anyone who goes to take out the ‘spawn are in danger of catching the blight.”

“Don’t second guess yourself now. You did the right thing. Our men will be careful, and the Wardens are too vulnerable to the Corypheus and the Calling.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Ellana rubbed the bridge of her nose with her fingers, then peered up at her fellow mage. “Don’t suppose you want to go with me?”

“Ah, well. That is - I mean, if you need me-”

Ellana calmed his stuttering with a hand on his arm. “It’s fine. I understand. I took Bull out last time, and we were gone for two weeks. I should have thought about it before I asked. Stay with your man. I’ll ask someone else.”

“That’s not why-”

“Dorian. Are you really going to do this? No-one is fooled. And it’s _fine._ What do we care who you love, so long as you have someone that makes you happy? Now, if you hurt him or he hurts you, then we have a problem.”

“What if I like it when he hurts me?” Dorian asked with a smug grin.

Ellana threw her hands up in the air, stepping away from him in disgust. “Dorian! Not something I wanted to know! Just - gah! Be happy, and don’t tell me anything else, got it?”

“But _Inquisitor,”_ Dorian needled, following her out the door and along the battlements. “What if I need to talk about it? The pain is eating me up inside.”

_“No,”_ Ellana said as she steamed through Cullen’s office, the Commander’s face a mask of surprise. “I’m not talking to you about this. You’re happy? I’m happy. But details are _not_ to be shared.” The door slammed shut behind them as they left.

“Why blush so hard?” Dorian chirped, bouncing down the steps behind her. “Mayhaps you are more interested than you sound? Is there a little kink to our upright leader?” he asked eagerly. “Bull will be thrilled!”

“Dorian!” Ellana rounded on him as she reached the landing, her whole face, neck, and ears the color of embrium. “So help me, if you don’t get lost within the next few seconds, I’m taking you out with me and you’ll have to wait two _more_ weeks for your beloved.” She threw her hand out, pointing towards the bottom level “Scram!”

Dorian drew himself up, snapped his heels together, and thumped his fist against his chest in a perfect imitation of the salute the soldiers use. “Ma’am, yes ma’am!” He said, winked, and flounced down the stairs.

Ellana growled in inarticulate rage, lifted her hands as if they were around his neck, and shook them back and forth. Catching the concerned glances from the people below, Ellana made an effort to control herself, smoothing her clothes and straightening her shoulders. Then we went back up the stairs to speak with Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I actually intended for Ellana to go along with Fen’harel and Mythal to the Black City. I was all geared up and ready to go with her as a Tranquil and everything. But then...when I reached that point. Well. It just didn’t seem right. To compensate, I’m posting a one-shot that follows Fen’harel and Mythal: “Into the Black City.” Go check it out!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Frostback Basin is explored, and Solas returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the dlc Jaws of Hakkon starting here. You have been warned. No other dlc is used.

Despite her annoyance with a certain Tevinter, the Inquisitor did _not_ take Dorian with her out to the wastes, and he was appropriately grateful when she returned two weeks later, with the problem dealt with. Explaining the darkspawn and the theories about where they had come from to Abelas had been...interesting. Ellana was impressed, actually. The sentinel, and all his men, seemed to be taking all the changes in the world in stride, fitting in amongst the people of the Inquisition with minimal problems. In fact, the only time they had issues at all, was when any of the elves who called Skyhold home would approach them. Then the sentinels would respond with sneering disdain, more often than not sending the elf fleeing in panic. Ellana wished it wasn’t so, but it was an undeniable fact that Mythal’s servants got along quite well with everyone _but_ the elves.

It was heartbreaking, really.

Solas still hadn’t returned - Creators, they were pushing past the three month mark. How long could it really take to show Mythal around the City? - and Ellana desperately wanted to be back on the road again. She had no doubt that Solas would come find her, wherever she was, as soon as he returned. And she would go crazy, moping about his room like a lovesick child, if she let herself. So instead, she headed back out into the field.

Scout Harding had an interesting one for her today. A new place, which was always fun. And this one was filled with Avvar. Two groups, one of which was actually friendly. She hadn’t met friendly natives in….ever, really. She was looking forward to it. She took Cole because being around him made her feel closer to Solas, somehow. And his words were soothing. Blackwall, because she needed a warrior and he got along with Cole much better than Cassandra who, even now, called the poor boy ‘demon.’ And the last…

She found him in the rotunda, as she usually did. They passed many hours here together, both of them remembering the one who used to stalk its walls.

“Inquisitor,” Feynriel said, nodding to her and then turning back to the fresco, studying it as he usually did. He was determined to figure out how Solas had managed to press the paint into the fade.

“I have a question for you, Feynriel.”

The young man turned to face her, eyebrows raised curiously.

"I was wondering...and please feel free to tell me no...but I was wondering if you wanted to come out into the field with me. I’m headed south to the Frostback Basin.” The Inquisitor stood in the middle of the floor, well away from the young man. She didn’t want to pressure him at all. But she’d noticed how antsy he’d gotten as the weeks went by. And, well. She needed another mage. And she certainly wasn’t about to take one from Grand Enchanter Fiona’s group. They might have been helpful in closing the breach, but she didn’t know or trust any of them.

 “Are you serious?” Feynriel gaped.

 Ellana frowned, “of course I’m serious. I need another mage, and with Solas gone and Vivienne working on a long-term project for me, Dorian is all that’s left. He’d come if I asked, of course, but he’s burning out. I don’t want to do that to him. He deserves more downtime than I’ve been giving him.” She paused, “you should be aware that, if you come, not only will you be taking orders from me, but we will get in a lot of battles. Mostly with wildlife, but there is a group of Avvar there known as the Jaws of Hakkon who are _not_ friendly. You _will_ be killing people.”

 Feynriel relaxed, folding his arms across his chest and sinking into his hip. “I’ve killed before, Inquisitor. And I’d love to come with you.”

She grinned, “going stir-crazy?”

“Just a little.”

“All right, then. Get your things together, we leave in an hour.”

 

-

 

Abelas joined them. It wasn’t a constant thing, sometimes he stayed with his people. But, despite the fact that he had gone out with the Inquisitor on the last field trip, he stood calmly by the gates, a bareback hart by his side, waiting for the rest of the party to appear.

“Abelas,” Ellana nodded towards him as he swung up on his mount.

“Asha’hanin,” he replied, and nudged his mount to fall into step beside her. “Where is your compass pointed this time?”

Ellana laughed, he had such a strange way of wording things, sometimes. “South. To the Frostback Basin. An Orlesian researcher thinks he may have discovered the last known whereabouts of the previous Inquisitor. It’s a trail almost eight hundred years old. But it may give us a significant status boost if we can find his resting place.”

He nodded, and said no more. Abeleas was an elvhen of few words. Just like Solas. Ellana couldn’t help but wonder if it was part of their natures, because they moved in a time so much slower than theirs, or if it was a product of loss.

It was a week’s journey to the basin, and the party spent the time getting to know their newest member. Feynriel made a good showing, being polite but not awe-struck as he spoke to the well-known members of the Inquisitor’s inner circle.

Watching him from beyond the fire as Feynriel conversed easily with Blackwall, Ellana couldn’t help but smirk. After all, he’d made friends with the Dread Wolf first. After him, her inner circle was nothing.

Cole appeared at Ellana’s side. “He thinks of you.”

“So you say. But you can’t tell me where he is,” Ellana responded. It was a common conversation between them.

“You know where he is.”

She sighed. Because she did. But that didn’t help. “Can you tell me if he is safe?”

“He’s not.”

Ellana made a strangled noise in her throat. Because she knew that, too. “Then can you tell me when he’ll return? How close he is to being finished?”

“No. I cannot go there. I’m sorry.” Cole’s voice was filled with pain. All he ever wanted to do was help, but in this instance, he could not.

Abelas, who had been watching the exchange with curious eyes, said, “you ask the same questions, and always receive the same answers. Yet you continue to do so. Why?”

“Because. One day, the answer will change.”

“And the spirit will know?” Abelas had recognized Cole for what he was almost from the moment he’d laid eyes on him in Mythal’s temple. He’d never expressed any of the prejudices that the Inquisition's forces held, and though he seemed as confused as the rest of them when Cole went of on one of his tangents, at least he was not afraid.

Ellana gestured at Cole, allowing him to explain.

“He likes me. And I like him. We’re friends. He’ll talk once he leaves. I left messages. He will go to her.”

When she understood the topic, Ellana found Cole to be remarkably plain-spoken. She wondered if it wasn’t the same with everything he said, that if she had the proper frame of reference, everything would make much more sense.

Though he surely did not understand all of that, Abelas inclined his head towards Cole as if he had. Cole grinned, and poofed away to join Feynriel’s conversation. Without Solas around, the young somniari was the one who understood him best.

They passed the night in quiet conversation.

 

-

 

They made good time in their travel south, and arrived at the main base camp for the Inquisition early on the eighth day. After a brief conversation with both Scout Harding and the Orlesean researcher, Ellana and her companions set out to explore the floor of the basin. As she’d promised Feynriel, most of the battles they got in were with the wildlife. Namely…

“Spiders! Why does it always have to be spiders! I swear, it’s like everyone knows how much I hate the things, and they go out of their way to-” she shut up as she raised up a wall of fire between her and three oncoming arachnids. “Gah!” She stabbed down with the blade at the end of her staff, catching one of the poison spiders right in one of its many, oversized, glittering black eyes. _“Why_ do they have so many eyes?”

“Nature’s way of pissing you off, I guess,” Feynriel said in an off-hand fashion as he chained lightning through the set of three clustered on the other side of Ellana’s firewall.

“Yeah, well,” Ellana grumped, forming a blade of pure energy in the palm of her hand. “Nature needs to learn not to piss me off.” She charged at one of the spiders that had been flung away by Feynriel’s lightening, gutting the creature from nose to tail as she dashed past.

Abelas appeared, launching himself out of the shadows and onto the back of the second spider, his twin daggers biting deep into the joints of its carapace. The thing reared up, mandibles clacking angrily, as it tried to throw him off. Cole dashed into the opening and spilled its guts upon the ground. Blackwall charged into the fray, having already taken care of four of the creatures by himself, and used his shield to daze the last spider. A flash of his sword, and it was no longer a problem.

Ellana allowed her energy sword to dissipate, shaking her hand to rid it of the tingles as she looked around. “Everyone alright?”

The question was automatic after a year and a half of constant fighting and everyone nodded or grunted in their fashion to indicate their state of health as her eyes ran over them. Even Abelas was not spared, and he gave her a shallow bow. She smirked, and moved on, settling on Feynriel.

She walked over to the somniari, who was leaning on his staff, catching his breath. “You’re doing a good job,” she assured him, patting him gently on the shoulder.

“Thanks. This is harder than I thought it would be. Everything is so _easy_ in the fade.”

Blackwall barked a laugh, “you’ve been spending too much time with Solas, you’re starting to sound like him.”

Ellana smiled and lead the party along the path that followed the river, eyes peeled for more spiders. The poisonous ones were the worst, they actually _spit_ their venom from almost fifteen feet away. And that was just _not fair._

A familiar breaking, crackling sound had Ellana lifting her head alertly, and she almost immediately began to curse.

“Problem?” Abelas asked mildly.

“It’s a rift.”

“So?” Blackwall asked. “I’ve lost count of how many we’ve closed. This is just one more.”

“It’s not ‘just one more’, though I wish it was.” Ellana held out her hand for inspection, and the group dutifully looked at the anchor on her palm. “I can’t close it with just this, anymore. Ever since Adamant, when Fen’Harel had to pull from it in order to win the fight with the Nightmare, I’ve needed Solas’ help to close the rifts.”

“And he’s not here.” Blackwall whistled, “It’s a lot fainter. Just how much did he pull from it?”

“More than half,” Ellana grumped. “He still can’t close the rifts on his own, he says the magic is ‘different’. So, I make the connection, and he uses that to close them.” Ellana paused, then offered her hand to Abelas directly. “Do you have any ideas?”

He obediently inspected it more closely, but refrained from actually taking her hand. “It is of Fen’Harel, though different. Part of that is because it resides inside you, the other is…” he trailed off, frowning slightly.

“Probably because I got it from the orb when Corypheus still had possession of it. Solas said that Corypheus had managed to warp the magic of it somehow. Enough that Corypheus would be able to use it.”

“This is not something for which I have the talent. The Veil and the Beyond are the realm of Dreamers.” Abelas shook his head and stood up, taking a step away. “I am sorry, but I can offer no assistance.”

But Ellana did not appear concerned, turning curious eyes on Feynriel.

“What?” Feynriel asked, becoming uncomfortable under her gaze.

“He said Dreamers. Think you could help?”

Feynriel’s eyes went wide. “That’s...uh. I’ve never attempted anything like this before. I’m not even sure what you’re asking.”

“Help me close the rift,” Ellana said, walking up to the young mage and speaking softly. The rest of the group drifted a small distance away, giving them a bit of privacy.

“How?”

“I can make the connection with the anchor. From there, Solas…” she frowned. “Well, he usually helps me guide the energy, keeping it from leaking. But I don’t need that anymore. What I need from you is a burst of will, and the talent of a somniari to close the rift. Just merge your mana with mine once I connect with the rift, and you should be able to command the rift close. It’s something like how you shape the fade.” Her voice went up on the last part, indicating that it was more of a guess than a statement of fact.

“That’s...all right. I’ll give it a try.”

“Good man!” Ellana slapped him on the back, causing him to smile, and she lead the way towards the glowing green light of the rift. “Let’s go, gents! Time to kill some demons!”

Feynriel nodded in determination, “no problem.”

It was actually a bit more than a ‘problem’, but they managed to get through it anyway. Abelas used his ability to neutralize magic, and it kept a few of the demons from even emerging from the rift. Saving their lives, and making the fight that much easier.

When the time came for her to close the rift, Ellana sidled up next to Feynriel. “All right,” she told him in a calm tone, hoping to ease his nerves post-battle. “Grab my wrist. It’ll help with the connection.”

He swallowed, “right,” and gripped it tightly.

She almost objected, he was _strong,_ but thought better of it at the last second. He was nervous, it would be fine. “I’ll make the connection. Follow my lead.”

Ellana lifted her arm, Feynriel’s rising with it, and focused her attention on the rift. In a practiced motion, she send energy pouring from the anchor into the rift. At first, nothing happened, Feynriel unresponsive. “Focus!” she hissed at him, and he came alive.

His mana flowed smoothly down his arm to his wrist, following the line of energy to the rift. She could feel him fumbling for a moment, exploring, trying to find a place where he could grab it. Ellana might not be able to feel the veil the way he could, but closing rifts was what this mark was for, and she guided him with gentle touches of her magic, even as she maintained the connection. He stuttered, then understood, grabbing the edges of the fissure and simply...folding them over each other. He pressed a line of the mark’s power up the seam and...the rift was gone.

Ellana gasped, and dropped her arm, breaking Feynriel’s grasp on her wrist.

“Impressive,” Abelas said from a few steps away.

“It’s never been like that before,” Ellana said, shaking her hand out to get rid of the tingling. Of course it would be different. Feynriel wasn’t absorbing the power of the rifts for himself. She’d purposefully left that part of the process out. She wondered if it had returned to Fen’Harel in the fade, or if was simply lost to him. _Not,_ she thought derisively, _that he needed anymore power._

“Sorry. It’s the only way I could think of to do it.” Feynriel said, blushing.

“It’s fine. We closed it, and that’s all that matters.”

 

-

 

The Frostback Basin was the most amazing place she had ever been. The Avvar worked with the land, not against it, their homes built into the face of a cliff. Each home had a small garden, large enough to feed the occupants and no more. The hunting was done in packs, to increase the chances of bringing down game. They worked together as a whole, to keep the people prosperous. They had relationships with spirits...Ellana longed for Solas to be here. He would have been overjoyed to see mortals and spirits coexisting so peacefully.

As she stood at one of the overhangs carved into the cliff, Ellana stared out at the water and wondered.

Vivienne was having no luck finding any land that they could use to set up the new country. All of the lands to the north were claimed, and no one was willing to part with a single part of it. But the land here was untouched by human cruelty. Only the Avvar held sway, and they’d already said that they welcomed all who would not poison the land or seek to cast them out. They’d already been cast from the north, and would not be driven from their new home.

Honestly, Ellana had no desire to take this place from them. Even so far south, this area had ruins of Elvhenan, and though they held a wealth of knowledge that she was dutifully recording, she’d come to the conclusion that she didn’t want to build the country anywhere where there were ruins. This would be a new country for a new People. They would take that which was valuable from their past, and scrap the rest. Building on fresh soil was the way to start.

What lay beyond the water she now looked at? There was an island, which was their ultimate goal, but what was on its other side? More water? Or another land, one unclaimed by any of the humans? What would it take to find out? Perhaps there was another race there, waiting to be discovered. Maybe they would have space for one more.

Ellana turned away and headed back to the camp and beyond - Skyhold. Maybe _this_ time, Solas would be waiting.

 

-

 

An hour outside Skyhold, Cole’s head snapped up, a joyous expression flitting across his face. “He’s back!”

“Skyhold?” Ellana asked, trying to reign in her excitement, but utterly failing.

"Yes.”

“Tell him to wait. We’ll be there soon.”

Cole nodded and vanished. His horse, suddenly riderless, squealed in alarm. Only Blackwall’s firm grip on its bridle kept it from bolting. The whole group sighed in relief as the animal slowly calmed. Ellana’s hart, sensing her mounting excitement, began to prance and toss its head, straining at the bit to run.

“Go.”

Ellana looked back. Blackwall was the one who had spoken, but he and Abelas shared the same look of amused affection.

“Go,” Abelas insisted, and Ellana gave her heart free reign.

They flew down the road, the four-point beat of hooves a perfect cadence for the racing of her heart. The wind flew by, drawing tears from the corner of her eyes. But her grin was fierce and her heart grew lighter with every mile that disappeared beneath the hart’s hooves. She made it in half the time, and as she flung herself from the back of her mount, Ellana looked for the horsemaster.

“Master Dennet, would you mind…?” Ellana asked of the man.

But he was already coming forward, an indulgent smile upon his lips. “Shoo,” he told her, taking the reins from her hands.

“Thank you!” she called, already racing off.

She could hear the music as she dashed up the steps, a song of welcome wafting from her windows. He was waiting in her room.

And Josephine was standing outside her door.

Ellana skidded to a stop with dismay. What sort of crisis…

But Josephine just smiled, “your schedule is clear,” and opened the door.

“You are the best, Josie!” Ellana threw her arms around the human’s shoulders and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek.

Josephine only laughed and waved her away.

Ellana bolted through the door, barely pausing to ward the entrance, before she dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She could hear the music better, the tone full of love and welcome. Her heart soared, her smile becoming painful she was grinning so hard, and she came up the last few steps so fast she stumbled.

Ellana gripped the banister, her knuckles white, and just stared at him.

Solas leaned against her desk, legs crossed at the ankle, his hands cupped around the _rodhe’sil._ His eyes had been closed when she first appeared, but they popped open, staring at her with love.

_“Vhenan,”_ she said, and came towards him slowly, drinking him in after nearly three and a half months apart.

He was dressed much the same as he always was. Bald head, cream tunic, jawbone. The bottoms of his leggings flowed free, his feet bare of the wraps. His toes were beautiful.

The music petered away, he set the _rodhe’sil_ on the desk behind him, and held out his arms. She nearly threw herself into them.

“Welcome home,” he whispered, one arm around her waist, the other curled up so that he could bury his fingers in her hair.

“Welcome home,” she said in return, clinging to his shoulders and pressing her face to his cheek so hard it hurt. She squeezed as tightly as she was able, and though he grunted, he did not object. He simply returned the gesture in kind.

_“Ir abelas, vhenan._ I had no idea it would take us so long to go through the City.” He tucked his head, pressing back against her, his voice a soft rumble in her ear.

“How long was it for you?”

“One day.”

She laughed, finally pulling back far enough to look him in the eyes. Kiss his mouth. Trace the lines of his ears with her fingers. “They tell you how long it’s been for us?”

Solas nodded and kissed her in a serious sort of way. “Dorian kept a running tally. Three months, twelve days, and three point zero six hours. Approximately.”

Ellana pulled away. Twining her fingers with his, she tugged him gently towards the bed. She stopped at the edge, and he helped her strip out of her armor. Once she was in the more comfortable bottom layer, she grabbed his hand again and pulled him down onto the bed. She lay down on her back and maneuvered him with gentle pressure to lay on top of her. He braced his forearms on the bed, so as not to smother her, his legs between both of her own. She wrapped her arms around his back, squeezing tightly. It was an intimate position, but not sexual. They both simply wanted the comfort of the other.

Solas dropped gentle kisses upon her face and lips, soft lingering things full of love and wonder. She held him tightly, fighting off the tears she felt gathering. Stupid to cry now that the was back. Hadn’t she done enough of that already?

“I missed you,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“And I, you.”

“You were gone only a day!” she objected, focusing on something other than the relief she felt at his presence.

“And yet, I missed you still. How could I not? When you left, you took my heart with you.”

She laughed brokenly, and he kissed her sweetly, a gentle swipe of his tongue along her lower lip.

“Does she believe?”

“Yes.” Solas shifted down and to the side. He worked one arm under her, the other coming up to lay across her stomach. One leg lay across hers, and his head rested against her chest, his ear pressed to her heart. “She is speaking to Lady Morrigan now. She has a solution for our problem with Corypheus’ archdemon.”

“That’s...surprisingly good news.” Ellana curled one arm around his shoulders, the other came up to trace patterns in the arm across her stomach. She kissed his forehead often, tiny things she could not control.

“It is.”

She laughed, “so much has happened! I hardly know where to begin. You were right about Morrigan.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. She tried the eluvian. Almost immediately. She was already in the cells when I returned. Took me a few days to work out how to get her out, though. Keiran was very useful. Bit of a creepy kid, though.”

He nuzzled into her, swiping his cheek against her contentedly. “He concerns me as well. He has the personality of Uthemiel, but the mannerisms of a child. He remembers, but faintly. As if viewing a tale instead of feeling with the intensity of experience. The only consolation is that he is not like Flemeth. He does not share the body with Keiran. He _is_ Kieran. Just as you are Ellana.”

"Like you are Fen’Harel and Solas?” She murmured, lips brushing the tip of his ear.

He rumbled happily. “Just like.”

“Let’s see...what else? Oh! Abelas has started traveling with me.”

Solas slid his hand down her side, tracing her ribs, hips, and thigh.

Ellana’s breath hitched, it had been a long time after all, but kept talking. “Some of his sentinels have left, going to explore the world. Others have taken copies of the primer we made, and are using it to explore Skyhold. They’re interested in everything, but the Dalish that are here seem to make them angry.”

Solas grunted his understanding, his hand trailing down to her knee, then turning inward and sliding slowly back up.

Ellana began to talk faster. “Abelas has taken to going with me when we go out, not part of the official party, but nothing I can say keeps him from tagging along. Everytime I object, he just references that time I told him that I didn’t rule him.”

Solas laughed, slid his hand to the top of her thigh, skipping the important bits and earning a grumble from her. He traced his way up her stomach to her ribs, then started down her flank, making the circle again.

Ellana groaned, thumped her head against the pillow, and said, “You’re going to kill me.”

He sniffed, hand sliding up her thigh again, “certainly not.”

Knowing that the torture could go on for hours, Ellana pulled her brain back into a semblance of order. “I think I may have found a place for us to build.”

He froze at that, his whole body tensing against her.

She smiled softly, kissed the top of his head, and began to speak. “Two places, really. Possibly.” She cleared her throat. “There is more land south. The world does not end with the Kokari Wilds. We just got back from the Frostback Basin, actually. Looking for the remains of the previous Inquisitor. He was an elf, too. Did you know? Froze himself in time, to keep a high dragon contained. It was rampaging across southern Thedas during the second blight.” She grimaced, “off topic. That’s not the point, sorry. Point is, it’s a huge tract of land, occupied by a single Avvar tribe. They’ve already said that they would be willing to share. But, they’re on the coast. And I was standing there, looking out on the ocean and I wondered: _what’s on the other side?”_ She tilted her head down, speaking to the man frozen on her chest. “Do you know?”

He cleared his throat after a long moment, seeming to come back to life. “I...do not. Elvhenan spanned the known world, but that was only what is known now as Thedas. Obviously there are lands beyond - the Qunari came from somewhere.”

“My thoughts exactly! And,” she grinned, squeezing his shoulders, “I think it would be wonderful to build somewhere the elvhen have not been. To truly start fresh. Abelas and his sentinels have agreed to help with construction, quite a few of them know it old techniques for building and weaving. You know the old magics, as well as how to Dream Walk. And we can build the society however we wish.”

_“Vhenan,_ ” he choked, intense emotions strangling him.

“I know,” she hushed him gently, dropping kisses like rain upon his head. “Will you go with me? To look at the new world? To see if there is one? We can build with the Avvar, they’ve already agreed, and I’d certainly like to. But…”

“I will go with you,” he said, his voice thick. “I will always go with you.”

She shifted, rolled them so that he lay on his back, and she was propped up on his chest, finally able to look him in the eyes. Their legs remained intertwined, his arms taught around her. “Fen’Harel. My heart. My love. I could not do this without you. We will teach the People, show them the truth, and they will love you for it. I will not allow the Dalish to hide behind their arravels and _vallaslin_ any longer. We will build a city of our own, and then another, and another. Like Elvhenan of old, we will have no roads but those which span the eluvians. We will live in harmony with nature, we will work _with_ the spirits, and not against them. We will bring back the elvhen, the magic. We will make expeditions into ruins, show the People how things _really_ were in Arlathan. I may very well take us the rest of our lives. But we have the time and it _will be done.”_

Fen’Harel stared at her, his heart, his beautiful Ellana. She had given him hope, that this world might be better than it was. She worked with him, fought with him, plotted and planned with her advisors for a place for the elves to call their own. She accepted him when he told her of his true name, and loved him anyway.

He left for three months to explore the most horrifying and evil place in existence, a city he had created with his own two hands. When he’d returned, he’d bathed in water almost hotter than he could stand, trying to scrub away the taint that he felt the City had placed upon his soul. It had been one endless nightmare for him; each splash of blood, each crystaline glass a knife to his heart as he remembered the glory of the Pantheon before the fall.

And here she was, still working towards their shared goal. He soaked himself in evil, and she found them a home. A place to build anew. The fresh start they wanted so desperately for the People. _“Vhenan,”_ he breathed, cupping the back of her head, pulling her forward for a kiss. She did what he could not, accomplished that of which he could only ever dream. She did the impossible, frequently, and left him in awe of her majesty. He had never been a god, but he was beginning to suspect that she very well might be. “You have stolen me, heart and soul. All that I am is yours. Do with me what you will, for I trust in your wisdom far more than my own.”

She kissed him, slow and languid, reconnecting with him after three months of silence. Then she pulled back, smiling wickedly. “Whatever I want?” she purred.

There was something of the wolf in his answering grin.

 

-

 

_“Vhenan?”_

“Hmm?” his eyes were closed, and he rested fully against her, both of them still warm and languid from their unhurried love making. She’d thought perhaps that he had fallen asleep.

“Does Corypheus know what you are?”

His eyes opened, but other than that he did not move. “In what manner?”

“He knows you are Fen’Harel.”

“Yes.”

“Does he know you are a Dream Walker?”

Solas considered. “Perhaps.”

“Let me be more specific, then. Is Corypheus aware of the fact that it is your nature as a somniari, and not your power as a god, that allows you to walk in the fade?”

“I am...uncertain. He may. The Nightmare knows, but might not consider it a pertinent fact to share. The venatori _may_ know, depending on how much they got out of Feynriel while they still had him. If they know, then they will tell Corypheus soon, if they have not already. Why do you ask?”

Solas tilted his head up to look at her, and caught a glimpse of her biting her lip as she did when she was uncertain or thinking hard.

“I’m just remembering something you said once. That you aren’t the only Dreamer, and that Corypheus must not be allowed to get his hands on the power of one. Feynriel helped me close a rift not too long ago.”

“Yes, I felt the power return.”

“I wondered if you would. Anyway, he closed them just as easily as you, though not in the same way. If Corypheus has figured out that all he needs is another somniari, he may not come after you again. Not when you are so powerful and well guarded, and there are others who are so much easier to reach. All he needs is one.”

Solas frowned, understanding her point. “I have never attempted to contact unknown Dreamers in the fade. It is much easier once I have their ‘scent’, as it were.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Ellana smacked him lightly on the arm, and he grinned unrepentantly.

“I will speak to Feynriel. Two Dreamers searching will be more efficient than one. Let us hope that we can find them before Corypheus does.”

 

-

 

Later that night, once they had managed to drag themselves apart and actually put clothes back on, Solas and Ellana went downstairs hand in hand. They made the rounds, speaking to each person briefly. Vivienne, Josephine, and Lelianna were told of Ellana’s idea about the Frostback Basin and the land beyond. All agreed that it was a perfect location for Enlea’sileal. Feynriel was excited about the idea of searching for other somniari, and agreed to give up his lessons temporarily to look for them with Fen’Harel.

The next day, Ellana and Solas left Skyhold to search for a land beyond the water. Corypheus was still a danger, and Leliana’s agents were searching for his hide away. But it would take time for Flemeth to teach Morrigan how to become a dragon, and until Leliana’s people found something, there was no stronghold to attack. There was a lull in the war, and the elvhen couple intended to take advantage of it.

They left their mounts in the care of the Inquisition forces at base camp, and walked out into the Basin with nothing but their packs and staves. Though Solas didn’t even need that. The soldiers expressed concern at how small their party was, but a few heated looks and sly winks convinced them that company was not a good idea.

Once they were well away from the others, hidden deep inside the brush, Solas turned to Ellana with a gleam in his eyes. “I would like to try something, if you will indulge me.”

“Oh?”

“I would like to walk these woods with you, as the Wolf.”

She paused, stunned. Then a slow smile crept across her face. “I would _love_ that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww. Happy, happy sappy-fun! Figured we could use some, after the not-so-happy exploration of the Black City.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel meets the avvar.

It was absolutely, positively, the most thrilling thing Ellana had ever done in her life. Here she was, a lone Dalish elf, wandering through the woods, with the _Dread Wolf_ at her side. Even after months of dreams, and that one panicked flight back to Skyhold, she was still surprised at the sheer _size_ of him. His shoulder came up to her head, his length longer than she was tall. She could barely wrap her arms around his muzzle, his canines the length of her hand. And his _paws._ The size of dinner plates. He’d darkened his coat to an earth-toned brown, warm as life when she pressed her hand to his side, his fur coarse against her fingers.

“You really are the most handsome creature,” she murmured to him as they slipped through the foliage.

The look he threw at her over his shoulder was haughty, and she couldn’t help but laugh. He may not be able to speak, but he certainly had no problems communicating.

They encountered no enemies as they went, the spiders and varghests wary of a wolf so large and powerful. Even so, they went cautiously. The frost giant in the stone pillars defended his territory viciously, and there was no reason to get drawn into a fight.

Ears larger than her hands swivelled atop his great head, always searching for signs of trouble, and Ellana thought of how _safe_ she felt in his presence. Such paths her life had taken. She was the Inquisitor, leader of the most powerful organization in the world, heart to He Who Hunts Alone, and she’d never been happier.

Ears pricked, Fen’Harel’s head swung to the left, and an avvar emerged from the brush.

“Good evening,” Ellana said, pausing as she collected wood for the fire.

“Greetings,” the man returned with a nod, his eyes very carefully not on Fen’Harel where he hovered protectively at Ellana’s side.

When the avvar refrained from saying anymore, Ellana sighed, and dropped the wood in a neat pile in the center of the cleared circle she’d made. “Is there a problem with your people?”

“No,” the man’s eyes flicked once to Fen’Harel, then focused back on her. “Our chief requests your presence.”

Ellana glanced at Fen’Harel, who looked back at her steadily. “It isn’t far,” she told him, “half an hour, perhaps.”

He grabbed her pack daintily in his teeth and offered it to her.

She slung it across her back, taking up her staff as Fen’Harel indulged in a full-body shake. “Lead on,” she told the avvar.

The journey was silent, with the avvar respectful, but not fearful, of Fen’Harel. Ellana was actually impressed. Though it was likely that the avvar was thinking of Fen’Harel as a spirit-beast. Which...was only slightly inaccurate.

They walked into the avvar camp, and the people there fell silent as they took in the wolf walking placidly at Ellana’s side. She squirmed a little bit, uncomfortable with their stares; so when Fen’Harel’s cold nose touched the back of her neck, she gasped in shock and jumped away, hand clapped over the place where he had touched her. The onlookers chuckled while Ellana narrowed her eyes at him, his tongue lolling out of his mouth in laugher.

“Very funny,” she told him, but without heat. With one touch, he had broken the line of tension that had been forming in her belly, and relaxed the avvar enough that they went back to their duties. She was grateful.

Abruptly, Fen’Harel’s head came up, and he swerved from the path to a cave Ellana knew well on the left. Seeing this, Ellana and her guide followed, both knowing what he was going to find inside.

Sure enough, they found Fen’Harel and the avarr spirit-bear standing nose-to-nose, sniffing and smelling with enthusiasm. Ellana leaned against the wall, folded her arms, and grinned. Fen’Harel dwarfed the bear, who didn’t even come up to Ellana’s shoulders, but the bear seemed unconcerned about this fact. Simultaneously, Wolf and Bear took a step to the side, nose to each other’s flanks, as they worked their way down. Ellana bit her lip, trying desperately not to laugh. Surely he wouldn’t….

He didn’t.

Fen’Harel stopped at the Bear’s hindquarters, lifting his head and sneezing as he stepped away. The Bear tried to follow, nose twitching, but Fen’Harel turned his head and snarled a warning that had the Bear backing off. He sat down, lowered his head, and rubbed the side of his nose with one great paw, as if trying to remove something. Ellana came forward to offer her assistance, fingers were handy after all, but he simply shook his head, rubbed his muzzle again and then stood to his feet. The three of them left the cave, and behind them, the Bear yawned hugely and laid down.

“Well, that’s encouraging,” Ellana mumbled, not expecting a response.

“It is indeed. Clans never get along with their spirit-beasts war,” the avvar told her.

Ellana reached out and patted Fen’Harel’s shoulder in gratitude.

He made a sound that could only be described as a superior huff.

Ellana rolled her eyes, but kept going, the Chief’s throne but a few feet away from the spirit-bear’s cave.

They entered, and Fen’Harel immediately took up a spot along the left wall, laying down so as not to hover too badly.

“Thane Svarah Sun-Hair,” the Inquisitor said with a slight bow. “You have need of me?”

“No need, I simply wanted to speak to you.” The Thane turned and looked at Fen’Harel, where he lay in an elegant sprawl, taking up more than his fair share of space. “You never said the Inquisition had a spirit-animal.”

“It...doesn’t. Not really.” Ellana turned to look at Fen’Harel, trying to gauge his reactions, his preferences as to how to handle this.

He looked utterly unconcerned, the picture of a tame wolf, head up, ears pricked, but otherwise uninterested in the conversation.

She turned back to the Thane, knowing she was on her own. “Fen’Harel helps the Inquisition. But on his terms, and when he desires.”

The Thane laughed. “That sounds like a hold-beast to me!”

Ellana bristled despite herself. Fen’Harel was far more than some _hold-beast._

Fen’Harel huffed a laugh, and Ellana remembered all the times he had been talked-down to. _And_ the sly responses he gave, instead of growing angry. She remembered the Dalish First they’d met, who’d called him a flat-ear and ordered him to open the doorway with his magic - and the _da’len_ he’d addressed her with, full of scorn. She remembered Sera asking him how to say _excuse me_ in El’vhen’an, and his subtle emphasis on the words _the base form is common._

Ellana smiled. And said, “of course. Only the sharpest of ears can hear the truth.”

Thane Svarah laughed again, and so did Fen’Harel - for two completely different reasons.

Ellana grinned, enjoying the game, and continued, “last time we spoke, you said that you would be willing to share the Basin. Does this still stand true?”

“It does, so long as my conditions are met.”

“Work with the land, not against it, peace between our tribes, and no attempt to rule the other. I find those perfectly reasonable. If you are amenable, I would like to send some of my people to begin rebuilding some of the ruins here. We will take up residence in them, to avoid impacting the forest as much as possible.”

“That is fair. They are of your people, are they not?” The Thane stretched, her knees popping under the strain. “Welcome to Frostback Basin, Inquisitor. May our association be long and prosperous.”

“Thank you, Thane,” Ellana bowed her head again, and Fen’Harel stood to his feet.

The two of them walked out, and paced slowly down the cliff edge until they reached the water. Ellana pointed down the line to a small cluster of houses in the distance, arranged around a mostly smashed dock.

“That’s where we fought the dragon. It froze most of the water and we fought on the ice. Seems like it’s finally melted.” They walked towards the dock, and Ellana gestured to the water on their left, at the island that could be seen as a smudge on the horizon. “That’s the island. I’m hoping what we want is beyond.”

Ellana greeted the few avvar who had taken up residence in the huts, to fish from the bounty of the sea, and they nodded back, eyes wide as they took in Fen’Harel. He, of course, ignored them, and instead paced to the edge of the dock.

“What do you think?” she asked him, leaning into his shoulder. “Want to go to the island first?”

He nodded, and laid down, allowing Ellana to climb onto his back. She did so, and he stood back up. His coat lightened to that blinding, unnatural white again, snow falling from the ends of each hair, though it remained warm against her skin. There was a gasp from behind them, and Ellana couldn’t help her grin.

She leaned down, fingers tangled in his fur and whispered, “show-off.”

He lept off the edge of the ruined dock, and dove for the water. But the moment his paws touched the surface, it froze solid, thick and sturdy under them. Ellana threw her head back and laughed in delight as Fen’Harel took off at a dead run, the water freezing under them with each step, a long trail of ice bridging the gap between mainland and island behind them.

Ellana twisted on his back to look at it, admiring the smoothness of its surface, the gleam of scattered sunlight refracted into rainbows. “How long will it stay?”

He huffed, sat down, and as soon as she was standing on her own two feet, shifted back into a man. “The veil,” he said with awe, looking around at all the spirits floating free.

“It’s thin,” Ellana nodded. “I noticed the first time I was here.”

“It’s almost like…” he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

But she understood.

Ellana threaded her arm through his, tucking it into the crook of the elbow that he bent instinctively for her. She laid her head on his shoulder. “It’s like Arlathan,” she said for him.

“Yes. I never thought to find places like this again.”

They walked together, and though she could not tell what he was doing, Ellana could feel him playing with the veil. As he did so, spirits floated up to them. A few were angry at his intrusion, but were quickly soothed by whatever it was he was doing. Ellana sighed happily as they walked, for his efforts were calming the emotions of the spirits, pulling them away from the demon’s edge, allowing them to express their natures as spirits once more. The rage subsided, sorrow fled, and in its place there was passion and joy.

“That’s amazing,” Ellana breathed. The island, once hostile, now had such an air of peace and tranquility, that she found herself longing to stay. “How do you do that?”

“It is one of the many skills that makes up a Dream Walker. And, perhaps, what I consider our true purpose. We are the bridge between the physical world and the Beyond. The link between mortal and spirit. There need not be such hostility and fear. If we could treat the spirits with kindness, speak to them with patience, then they would never shift from their purpose.”

They followed the path up the small hill, arm in arm as if they strolled through a garden.

“Can demons shift back into being spirit?” Ellana asked. “Recall their original purpose?”

“It is...possible,” Fen’Harel told her. “But difficult.”

 

-

 

Ellana showed Solas where she had met a spirit who had taken on the memory of the first Inquisitor’s lover, a Dream Walker who had died waiting for the Inquisitor’s return.

“Promise me you won’t do that,” Ellana said, voice soft with sorrow as they stared into the flower-strewn interior of the hut. “There are too many parallels….promise me?”

Fen’Harel wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into his chest as he bent over, resting his chin against her shoulder. “I promise I will not waste away for longing for you, though my heart will urge me to such cause.” She shuddered in his arms, and he wished for a long life for them both. But war was cruel, and either of them might die tomorrow. “I promise you my love, for as long as I live. I promise you a hand to hold, a life to share. I promise you everything that I am, for it is all that I have to offer.”

She sobbed. Smiled. Turned in his arms and kissed him with fierce desperation. When they pulled apart, she looked at him with watery eyes. “Marry me?”

He kissed her on the nose. “I thought you’d never ask.”

She huffed, and kissed him again.

 

-

 

They continued to the far side of the island, to where the ocean stretched out beyond the horizon.

“How are we going to do this?” Ellana asked. “Freeze the water again?”

Fen’Harel looked at the water, contemplated their options. “Travel through the Beyond will be better. We do not know how far we will have to go, and even my mana has a limit. I would not want us to drown if it gave out.”

Ellana nodded and tightened her grip on his hand. “Do it.”

With no more effort than it would have taken Ellana to open a door and walk through it, Fen’Harel pulled them both bodily into the fade. He caught her as she stumbled, his feet planted firmly in a land of shifting dreams. He held her while she got her bearings, then released her.

Sliding his right hand into her left, feeling a portion of his power spark against his aura, Fen’Harel collected the pack he had stored in the Beyond and slung it over his back.

“How did that not get left behind?” Ellana wondered as they began to walk.

“It is the fade,” Fen’Harel shrugged. “The only rule is that if you can imagine it, it will happen.”

Fen’Harel pulled on the aether of the fade as they walked, helping them to travel much farther than the perceived distance of their footsteps. He wrapped Ellana in his aura, to prevent her preconceptions from altering what they saw, and purposely let go of his own impressions, allowing this section of the fade to be precisely what it wanted to be.

Which, it turned out, was the bottom of the ocean.

Ellana cried out in surprise and clung to him, their feet dangling in water that did not get them wet. Fen’Harel laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders even as she cursed and released him from her grasp.

“This is insane,” she told him calmly, pushing a hand through water thin as air.

“It is the fade.”

“That’s what I said,” she told him with a cheeky wink. “How do we go from here?”

“We walk,” he told her, and demonstrated by taking a large stride. Though there was no surface under him, he moved forward.

Ellana mimicked him, and reached his side in a matter of moments. She laughed in delight, and the two of them strode through the water hand in hand.

 

-

 

They walked for what felt like hours, though the both of them were intimately aware of how differently time flowed in the fade. Eventually, they came to what seemed like a great island, and Fen’Harel wrapped his arm around her shoulders before pulling them back through the veil into the physical world. Once again, Ellana staggered, and she shook his steadying hands free in annoyance.

“I wonder if I’ll ever get used to that,” she said crossly.

“It matters not,” Fen’Harel told her with a loving smile. “For you will always have me.”

“You really are a sweet talker.” Ellana leaned in and kissed him gently. “Now. Shall we?”

They wandered, searching for signs of habitation. They found it easiest to return to their previous mode of transportation: him as a massive wolf and her astride his ribs. He moved silently  through the brush at a speed she could never hope to match, both of their eyes searching for ruins. They found none, and as night fell, they made camp at the base of an enormous tree. Not willing to risk a fire, Fen’Harel stayed as the Great Wolf, and curled around his heart to keep her warm. When they had both fallen asleep, they met in the fade.

“How is it that you are a wolf there, but a man here?” Ellana asked, sliding her arms around his waist and laying her head against his chest.

“I have done the reverse often. I appear as I believe I should.” Fen’Harel kissed the top of her head.

They shared the warmth of each other’s embrace for a moment, before pulling away. Ellana could feel the excitement vibrating through her limbs. Fen’Harel was going to dream the memories of the fade, and she would be there to watch them unfold.

There was no sign of effort on his part, but the image of the fade shifted, echoes of the forest they slept in taking form around them. Impressions layered upon each other. The tree they sheltered against was at once a tiny sapling, a young conifer, and the giant monster dominating the landscape. Ghosts of animals stalked by, seasons layered with their passage. Each image separate and distinct from one another, even while being pressed together.

“Three hundred years...five hundred years...still no sign of intelligent habitation.” Fen’Harel flashed Ellana a grin. “I believe you have found the perfect place for us to build Enlea’sileal. A land untouched and unspoiled. You truly are marvelous, _vhenan.”_

Ellana grinned.

 

-

 

They settled into a pattern. They searched by day, Fen’Harel carrying his heart proudly on his back, looking for ruins in which to sleep. At night they searched the fade for memories, hope rising with each instance of untouched forest.

It was not just one island, they discovered, but a chain of them. Each large enough to house its own city-state, each far enough away that the fall of one would not immediately mean the fall of the next. Even the climate was temperate and warm. A little too warm for the Inquisitor, who spent most of her life in the frozen Free Marches. It truly was the perfect place for the People to start anew.

They had just decided to head back, that their mini adventure-honeymoon was over, when the world exploded.

Even so far from the mainland, hundreds and hundreds of miles from Ferelden and Orlais, they felt the tremor. It was beyond the horizon, hiding on the other side of the curve of the world, but they knew what had happened. For the power within them, one in the hand - the other in the soul, was tied to the very essence of it.

The Breach.

“He opened it!” Ellana said, scrambling to throw their camp items back into their bags.

“Corypheus has found another Dreamer.”

They wasted no more time with words, simply gathered their items and then stepped through into the fade. In a now-familiar motion, Fen’Haral became the Wolf and crouched for Ellana to climb atop him, exploding into a sprint the moment she was settled. He pulled at the fade, each stride a half-dozen miles, with Ellana curled between his shoulderblades, face pressed to his fur. But they had wandered far, this was so much more than the distance to Feynriel that Fen’Harel had crossed in a quarter hour. He ran, pulling as much as he dared, knowing that a battle awaited them as soon as they emerged. He could not afford to be too tired, or it would be over before it began.

_Please hold on until we arrive_ , they thought.

 

-

 

“Do not give in!” Cassandra cried to the assembled army, even as she threw a demon back with a mighty shove with her shield. “You are not alone! The Inquisitor is coming!”

“You are _always_ alone, and there will be no help!” Corypheus called back, and summoned forth a fresh wave of demons from the breach. “Bow before your new god, and your deaths will be merciful.”

The battle was being fought in the remnants of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the place where all the trouble had started more than two years ago. The Inquisition had grown strong in that time, soldiers and allies rallied to its cause as the Herald of Andraste closed the wounds in the sky. But Corypheus had not been idle in that time either, and though his physical warriors were limited to a few corrupt Wardens kept safely back from the front lines and a larger number of red templars, his true weapon lay in the young girl he held clasped under one arm.

She struggled not at all, her eyes wide with terror. There was a slave collar around her neck, and she didn’t object as Corypheus swung her around, surely digging his lyrium-spiked ribs into her side.

“Wider!” he commanded her, and she reached out with both her hands towards the sky. “Rip the veil asunder! Show them all how empty the fade is! Show them the vacant throne of their beloved Maker!”

She pulled, struggling against the weight of the veil, the weakness of her body, and…

“Do not!” Feynriel cried, his voice echoing out across the battlefield from where he was at the back. “You doom us all if you damage it further!” The somniari reached out with his powers, across the vast distance, and grabbed the veil where the slave had torn it, seeking to bring the edges together as he had done with the smaller tears.

“Do not listen to the boy. I am your new god! Bow before me; do as I say!”

The slave, conditioned to obey, did as Corypheus commanded, and a struggle ensued between the two somniari. Feynriel was older, better trained. But he was almost a quarter mile from where the slave dangled from Corypheus's hands, and then another half mile from there to where the Breach hovered in the sky. He’d never had to reach so far. The slave was young and feeble, but propped up by the power Corypheus fed into her fragile frame. And the breach itself was swollen, a crack in a damn, bulging outwards from the pressure of the spirits and demons drug towards it, and then expelled like refuse. In the end, it was a stalemate. But one that leaned in Corypheus's favor. For time was on his side.

“You cannot stop me!” Corypheus crowded, as the breach slowly inched wider with Feynriel’s exhaustion. “I am your Elder God, and shall lead this world into a new age!”

But something new came from the breach. Blinding white, with piercing blue eyes, a massive wolf with a blizzard pouring from his shoulders and icicles of ice forming upon his every breath. It shot away from the breach like a comet, heading for the line where the two armies clashed. He landed heavily at the forefront of the Inquisition's forces and the force of it was enough to kick up a snowstorm that obliterated the vision of the attacking demons. In an instant, the tide of the battle turned, and the demons were quickly dispatched as they tumbled, disoriented, from the snow.

Corypheus roared in rage, but summoned his demons back, away from the deathtrap the snowstorm had made. “Who are you that dares to stand against me?”

The wolf braced its feet, tilted its head back, and howled an answering challenge to the sky. The Dalish who had joined forces with the Inquisition cried out in hope and fear.

“Dread Wolf!”

“Fen’Harel has returned!”

The voices rose over the Inquisition soldiers, identifying the snowy figure as the ancient elvhen god for all. Then...

“It’s the Inquisitor!”

A cheer rose up, drowning out Corypheus's snarl as the snow cleared enough for reveal the form of the Herald of Andraste seated proudly atop the Great Wolf.

“You are no god, Corypheus!” the Herald shouted, staff raised high in defiance. “You are nothing but another darkspawn, cast from the City in madness. It is time to put you down!”

Corypheus replied, but the Inquisitor did not bother listening. Instead, she spoke to her mount; power and command in her every word.

“Now, Fen’Harel. It is time to seal the Breach for good.”

The wolf gave a barking growl in acknowledgement, the Dalish gasping in shock as the Dread Wolf bowed his head to the elf atop his back. The Inquisitor raised her left hand, the green energy of the Anchor flashing across the darkness of the battlefield. Beyond, the demons approached slowly, as if to steal a victory in a moment of distraction. But Varric was watching, and called out to the archers for a volley of arrows, Bianca singing her warsong. The demons fell before they could get close.

Magic, green as the Anchor, green as the Breach, rose in a swirl of power from Fen’Harel’s feet, twisting around him and his rider, joining with her power as she made the link to the rip in the sky so far ahead. The Inquisitor called out in pain and anger, the sound echoed by a howl from the Great Wolf, and slowly the Breach began to close.

“Stop them!” Corypheus demanded of his slave, throwing her down upon the ground. “That is your only purpose - stop them! Tear open the Breach!”

The slave whimpered, reached with her hands, but was no match for the power of a god. “I cannot, Master!” she cried in despair. “They are too strong!”

With a scream of rage and a swipe of one claw, Corypheus killed the slave. “Then you are useless to me,” Corypheus told her corpse. He turned his attention to the Wolf and Inquisitor who were even now closing the rip in the veil. He reached out with one mangled hand, beckoning to his enemies. “Come, Fen’Harel. Come, if that is who you truly are. An ancient god at last come to oppose me. I will drain your power and rise to fill the empty throne in the Black City. You will fall!”

But Fen’Harel did not move, his only response a snarl of anger.

The Inquisitor lifted her head and turned, gazing out over the forces arrayed behind her. Her eyes landed on the members of her inner circle who were closest. “Varric! Cassandra! Cole! Come, it is time to end this!” The three came forward, pushing their way Through the crowd, and as they got close, the Inquisitor once again turned her attention to the god who bowed before her. “Down, Fen’Harel. You will carry us all.”

All eyes watched as the Betrayer crouched low on his belly at the command, his snarl cut short at her words. It seemed that the Inquisitor reached down and ran her fingers through his fur, unharmed by the frost that formed at its tips, petting the Dread Wolf like a pet.

“Uh, Inquisitor,” Varric said, intimidated by the size of the Wolf, even as it seemed so obedient to commands. “Are you sure-”

“Get on, Varric.” The Herald of Andraste would accept no protests now.

Varric bowed his head and took her proffered arm, scrambling slightly due to his short stature. But Cassandra got on behind him, steadying him with hands on his shoulders. Cole sat in the back, balanced precariously across the Dread Wolf’s haunches.

“Your army will do you no good now, Inquisitor!” Corypheus called. He reached down with both hands, seemed to grasp at some invisible power, and pulled them back up, straining with the force of the magic. But the ground answered him, rising up into the air. A bit of wall here, a staircase there, the Temple of Sacred Ashes broke apart and reformed high into the sky, a twisting nightmare of deadfalls and empty doorways.

“Go!” The Inquisitor called as the crumbling walkway before them rose into the air.

Fen’Harel exploded into action, seemingly unencumbered by the additional burdens on his back. He took to the sky in leaps and bounds, springing from one tumbling bit of rock to another, chasing Corypheus as he fled to higher, more complete sections of the Temple.

Corypheus said something, his voice muffled by wind and distance, and Fen’Harel came to a stop on a bit of wall twisted sideways by magic to make a ledge. His ears pricked at something only he could hear, and a low growl sounded deep in his throat.

“Yes,” the Inquisitor said, as if the Wolf had spoken. “Are they here?”

One snowy ear flicked in her direction, a soft patter of snow landing across her leg. Then a roar like broken glass, and Corypheus's corrupted dragon flew past, shards of red lyrium in its breath. Fen’Harel tilted his head back, the shift casing all but the Inquisitor to flail to hang on, and howled a summons across the sky. There was a pause, then an answering cry, followed by another. Two dragons appeared from beyond the edge of the cracked wall, one green, one blue, and they hit the lyrium dragon from opposite sides at the same time, claws catching and teeth biting.

“Maker’s Breath,” one of the people behind the Inquisitor said. “You command dragons as well?”

The Inquisitor smiled, but did not answer.

The red lyrium acted as both weapon and shield for the red dragon. But the lyrium was no defense as the wings of the attacking dragons snarled his, sending the three of them hurtling to the ground in an uncontrolled spiral. It turned its head, bit deep into the haunch of the green dragon. But that left its own neck available to the blue one, and it wasted no time in sinking both claws and fangs into the tender flesh. The red dragon howled, releasing its prey in attempt to save its own life. But the move only tore its wounds wider as it thrashed.

The green dragon turned, wings tucked tight to its body, and slashed at the underbelly of the red dragon, spilling entrails that snagged in the red dragon’s feet. Kicking only snarled them further, and the creature disemboweling itself as it strove to get free. On some unseen signal, both green and blue dragons kicked free of their prey, backing away with powerful wing beats as the red dragon continued to fall, a tumbling mass of rage and agony. In a synchronized effort, the two hovering dragons spat their breath at the falling serpent, one ice, one fire. The red lyrium dragon screamed once more, hit the ground far below, and was dead.

The two dragons roared in triumph, Fen’Harel howled back, and then they left, flying away to parts unknown.

"Holy shit,” Varric said.

A snarl of energy rose up from the corpse, shot through with red lights, and flew at Corypheus, drawn to him and what remained of his power. “How _dare_ you,” he said as he absorbed that which he had split asunder. “You will pay with your _lives_ for such insolence.”

With one final leap, Fen’Harel had Corypheus cornered at the top of the hovering Temple.

“Don’t you ever get tired of the sound of your own voice?” the Inquisitor asked, and Fen’Harel barked a laugh.

The Great Wolf crouched, and all four of his riders slid free to stand on their own. He looked at the Inquisitor for more instructions, but she only shrugged.

“Do as you wish,” she told it with a fond pat on its shoulder. “I will not command you in this.”

Fen’Harel laughed again, and then took a few steps away, shaking his fur vigorously, casting soft flurries of snow across his allies.

“Very well,” Corypheus said with narrowed eyes. “I will just kill you and find a new somniari. There will be no one to stop me then.”

The Inquisitor and all her friends drew their weapons.

“You can certainly try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...tell me what you think? The last half is written in a completely different style, and I'd like opinions on it. Please and thank you!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle.

Corypheus raised his hands to cast a spell, and Fen’Harel bound away, taking the encircling wall in one smooth leap. He disappeared over the other side of it, leaving the four riders behind to face Corypheus without him.

“Will he come back?” Cassandra asked, even as she approached Corypheus warily with shield held high.

“Fen’Harel does as he wills,” the Inquisitor said, casting her strongest barrier around her allies. “If he has left, it is because he fights on a different front. He has not abandoned us.”

Corypheus cast his spell, and there was no room for talk.

Sickly streams of black energy, crystals of red lyrium clearly visible inside of it, came for the Inquisitor. She shifted to the side, trying to move out of its way. But the energy curved to follow her movements and while her barrier held for the first few seconds, the lyrium corrupted its magic, and it soon shattered under the assault. The back half of the stream hit her full-force and she went flying with the impact. Corypheus laughed darkly, twisting his hands in the familiar pattern to call up the energy again.

But Cole appeared behind him from nowhere, twin daggers held high. His face was blank and implacable as he drove them down, seeking to bury them deep in Corypheus's body. But the red lyrium, more than being imbedded in Corypheus's skin, was his skin, and the daggers did little more than distract the darkspawn as they skittered harmlessly across his shoulder blades. Still, they did well enough for a distraction, and he turned from the Inquisitor to face the new threat. Corypheous paused when he found his attacker had vanished, and looked around the battlefield for the spirit-rogue.

A sharp pain in his foot, and Corypheus looked down to find an arrow shot clear through it and into the rock below, pinning him to the ground. He reached down to pull it out, and met Cassandra’s shield head-first. The impact crushed his spine, the force of it ripping his foot free of the arrow as he went flying into the nearby rubble. Magic brought him upright again, but he could feel something had shifted dangerously in his neck. He called forth a wave of force, pushing it out in a circle from his body. Cassandra staggered and went to one knee, the dwarf in the back sent tumbling. The Inquisitor, only just climbing to her feet, was flattened once more. But the spirit-rogue was nowhere to be seen.

Taking advantage of the short lull in attacks, Corypheus cast an impenetrable shield around his body. It was a great drain on his mana, and even with the lyrium imbedded in his body he would only be able to hold it for so long. But it was enough to summon a handful of demons from the ground below. While the Inquisitor and her companions fought free of the demons, Corypheus healed the damage to his spine. He forced the lyrium to grow over it, calling forth the voices inside, demanding their obedience. And though they screamed against him, they bowed to his will. As they always had.

He dropped the shield before the last demon had fallen, cloaking himself from their sight before they even had a chance to turn their attention back to him. He floated to the side, seeking to flank the warrior. If he could get around the edge of her shield, one quick swipe of his claws would end her.

But before he could get close enough, the Inquisitor raised her arms, lifting her voice in a wordless shout to the heavens. Lightning came forth at her call, striking down at the battlefield from the clear sky. Over and over they answered her, obedient to her will. At the same time, the dwarf raised his crossbow, pointed up rather than out, and a flurry of arrows were released. They, too, struck down in a large circle, their sharp points sparing nothing in their path.

Corypheus was skewered by arrows, struck by lightning, and his cloaking spell fell away from him as he gasped in agony. The spirit appeared again, this time in front of the magister. Despite his wounds, Corypheus was faster, and he grabbed the rogue by its neck. “Come, little spirit,” he sneared at it, holding its body between him and his other attackers as a shield. “Join me and your brethren. These creatures hold no appreciation for one such a you. I can promise you power and strength.” Corypheus shaped a spell in his free hand and placed it against the spirits chest, binding it to his will.

The spirit screamed, Corypheus smiled, and twin daggers dug into his wrist from opposite sides, cleanly severing hand from arm. Spirit and darkspawn staggered apart, both gasping for breath. The rogue reached up and ripped the hand still around its neck free, hurling it away. The Inquisitor cast a ball of fire at it as it flew, incinerating it before it even hit the ground.

“You cannot bind me!” the spirit yelled, backing away warily.

Corypheus grew a crystal claw at the end of his mangled arm. “Then I will rip you apart.”

A fire glyph formed at the Corypheus's feet - he banished it with a wave of his hand. Crossbow bolts flew from the dwarf, they bounced harmlessly against a wall of air. Only the warrior was a real threat, and she was easily avoided by his ability to teleport across the battlefield. He noticed her, sometimes, staring at him in fierce concentration and then he would feel the lyrium inside of him attempting to squirm free of his grasp, growing flame-hot under her gaze. He formed the red lyrium bolt of energy again, and sent it seeking across the battlefield towards her. Even should she get the shield between it and her body, there would be more than enough splash damage to keep her occupied.

He cast fire at the Inquisitor, and she met it with a flame of her own. He flitted forward, seeking to rend her with his claws, but was held at bay by daggers and arrows. Corypheus snarled, circling the battlefield as the warrior stepped forward, bleeding from a dozen tiny gashes - each with a shard of red lyrium buried inside it.

 

-

 

“What does it take to _kill_ this guy?” Varric grumbled, reloading his crossbow with fresh bolts.

“I don’t know,” the Inquisitor said, renewing the barrier around them again. “He’s much stronger now, with the power from his dragon.”

“No shit?” Varric asked sarcastically, taking careful aim. _Maybe I can get him in his eye,_ he thought. But this bolt, like all the others, fell before it ever made contact with the darkspawn.

Cole flitted around Corypheus like a fly - annoying, but ultimately harmless. Nothing they did seemed to penetrate the rock like skin of the magester.

“We cannot keep this up,” Cassandra said quietly, eyes fixed on her opponent. “He does not seem to tire, and we do not have an unlimited supply of potions.”

The Inquisitor opened her mouth to respond, but snapped it shut again almost immediately. The Great Wolf bound over the wall again, something broken and bloody clutched in its mouth. With one great toss of its head, it threw the object at Corypheus, striking the magester in the chest.

“You!” the darkspawn snarled as whatever it was flopped to the ground. “You - how _dare_ you!”

“Is that-?” Varric asked, struggling to see over the broken bits of rubble strewn across the battlefield.

“A Grey Warden,” the Inquisitor confirmed, voice thick with satisfaction. “He won’t be coming back to life this time.”

“That’s where he went?” Cassandra asked.

“So you have finally returned, fake god. I thought perhaps you had run away again as you have at every other encounter,” Corypheus taunted the wolf with a voice filled with satisfaction. “Your petty actions will not help you. For I am a true god and-”

The wolf glowed green for the briefest of moments, and when it faded, a man stood in its place. Grey eyes, dark as a storm, stared out from a familiar face. Hair black as midnight swept away from elegantly pointed ears, bound in braids that kept it secured. His armor was like nothing any of them had ever seen. Brilliant red as fresh blood, trimmed in white wolf fur at the shoulders, shimmering thread swirling with magic stitched into runes along the bottom hem. His arms were bare, rings glittered with power on each of his fingers. His trousers were red as well, the color of dried blood, tight enough to ensure they did not catch but not so much as to restrict. Calves and legs protected by black wraps of dragon leather, toes free to aid in traction. He bore no staff, just a half jawbone from some forgotten animal, blackened with age and strung around his neck with two unassuming bits of twine.

_“Solas_ is _Fen’Harel?”_ Cassandra gasped in shock.

“Well, I’ll be a nug’s uncle,” Varric said.

Fen’Harel ignored them both. “You are no more god than I,” he said, and though his voice was soft, it cracked across the area like a whip. “No true god need prove itself, and you seek nothing if not validation.”

“I have seen the throne of the Maker - and its halls echoed only with the screams of madness!” Corypheus shot back.

“You stand here, now. Swollen on power not your own, seeking entrance once more into a City created by hands you could never hope to understand.”

The runes on Fen’Harel’s tunic began to glow blue, their twins appearing on the clothing of all that stood opposed to Corypheus. Ellana touched the runes on her tunic with the tips of her fingers, smiling as she felt a barrier spring into place around her. A glance around showed similar barrier’s appearing around her friends. Even now, facing off against his foe, Fen’Harel thought of them and sought to keep them safe.

“I have claimed the power at the throne of the gods, and I will claim yours as well!” Corypheus declared.

Fen’Harel smiled and it was full of teeth. He crouched, a predator about to pounce. “Then come and take it if you dare.”

Corypheus roared in rage, charging towards Fen’Harel, leading with the hand made of lyrium. Varric’s arrow storm drew the magister up short, keeping him at a distance from the Wolf who snapped his teeth at him in challenge. Corypheus blurred red, the Wolf blurred green, and there was a great crash as the two slammed bodily into each other on the other side of the battlefield from where they had stood.

The Inquisitor cast, her brows drawn down deep over her eyes as she focused. Lines of fiery light drew themselves in a complex rune behind the grappling form of the magister. He tried to interrupt her casting as he had before, but the Wolf caught hold of the lyrium hand, somehow draining it of its magic. The lyrium came away in Fen’Harel’s hand, fragile as glass, and he dashed it upon the ground. Corypheus cried out in fear, tried to pull away, and managed only to stumble into the exact center of the rune as it was completed. Fire flared up around him, catching his robes on fire, burning them and his skin away with a flash of flame.

“Ugh,” Varric cried out in disgust, holding back bile with will alone. “Did you have to do that, Boss? Some things I can’t unsee.”

Fen’Harel laughed with sadistic joy. “Such life beats within your breast.”

Corypheus had no sexual organs or intestines, burned away by some ancient fire. His lungs were shriveled black things, that seemed to flex only faintly with each breath. Only his heart looked alive, bright red and pounding out a rapid tempo, pressed up against the empty spaces between his ribs with every beat. The magister cried out in agony, falling to his knees.

Fen’Harel held his hands out, twisting with his fingers in both invitation and command. Cassandra and Cole struck together, blades biting and tearing at flesh suddenly soft. The edge of Cassandra’s sword caught on the joint between shoulder and wrist and the whole bottom half of the arm that had been whole tore away as she wrenched it free. Corypheus cried out again, tried to strike in retaliation - but his flesh continued to dissolve as Fen’Harel drained the lyrium from his body, each piece shattering with musical chimes upon the rocky ground. Lightening struck down with pin-point precision, and a series of arrows lodged themselves in both the exposed heart and an eye.

Overwhelmed by the attacks, Corypheus could only flail with his mangled limbs, unable to stand or formulate the concentration needed to attack with what little mana he had left. “Dumat!” he gargled over the river of blood, or maybe lyrium, that flowed from his open mouth. “If you live, if you ever lived, aid me now!”

“Dumat is dead, these last eight hundred years,” Fen’Harel told him softly, inches away from the ruined magister. “And now, so are you.” The Wolf reached out as if to lay his hand gently upon Corypheus’s cheek, and grasped the last of the lyrium crawling up the darkspawn’s face.

“No! Please! I beg of you-”

Fen’Harel pulled, and the crystal came away with a wet ripping sound, bringing the last remaining bits of flesh upon the skull with it. This, too, became fragile in the Dread Wolf’s grasp, and he crushed it with nothing but the power of his fingers. Bereft of the power that had sustained it, the empty corpse fell backwards towards the ground, shriveling as it went. The muscles pulled tight on the remains of the skeleton, greying rapidly with the onset of age that had been held off with dark sorcery. The bones became hollow and brittle, the skull empty as the eyes sunk away from view.

Fen’Harel lifted his foot and brought it down twice, once upon the ribs and once again upon the skull. They gave without a sound, crumbling as old ash. He raised a hand, and a soft wind rose, sweeping the ash away.

“So it ends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quiet over, my lovelies! I've still got an epilogue, and then an extras chapter.


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What comes after

**Vivienne** does indeed end up becoming the next Divine. She chooses the name Victoria, and immediately re-instates the Circles. But these are like no Circles Thedas has seen before. Attendance is still mandatory, beginning with the child’s first expression of magic. They are still required to stay in the Circle, learning from the senior Enchanter and their staff. Security is still provided by Templars, a Harrowing is still required for graduation. But this is where the similarities end. No longer a jail, the students are allowed - even encouraged! - to go home during all major holidays, family events and (for farmers) during the harvest season to help with the collection of foods. Once the mage has passed their Harrowing, they are allowed to leave, with the caveat that they show up at _any_ Circle once every year to prove that they still retain their own minds and are not possessed. Divine Victoria initially faced a lot of objections to her new Circle set up, but those settled quickly as the number of mages in the Circles swelled. Parents were no longer frightened of losing their children, apostates no longer feared losing their freedom. The instances of possession and blood magic dropped dramatically, as mages no longer felt pressed to extremes.

**Cullen** works with the remaining Templars, helping each of them slowly worth their way through their lyrium addictions. It takes him the better part of twenty years, and fifteen percent of the Templars cannot handle the withdrawals and either begin using again, or take their own lives. But progress is made, and many Templars are freed from the control of the glowing blue liquid. New Templars are taught the techniques, but not offered lyrium. They are less effective this way, and so there are more Templars than ever in the Circles. But they are less jailors and more security for the rowdy young students who scamper through the halls. They are called upon often to use their ability to suppress magic when teenage hormones hold sway. But the only fear is of detention, not death.

**Cassandra** rebuilds the Seekers of Truth. This time with honesty and duty as the backbone of the society. As before, initiates are put through the Trial. But this time, they are fully aware that they are going to be made tranquil for a few brief moments. Once the Seekers are numerous enough, they begin to search for the tranquil. One person at a time, they reverse the cruelty done to these individuals. Therapy is in place, to help them adjust to the presence of emotion again. For the select few who had asked for their tranquility, they are left that way, since it was their desire. These individuals are given jobs in the therapist's clinic, and are well-treated.

**Dorian, The Iron Bull, and the Chargers** go to Tevinter. The Iron Bull and the Chargers act as Dorian’s body guards as he changes Tevinter society from the inside. It takes him the rest of his life, but the second-happiest moment in his life is when the Council completely and formally abolishes slavery. He is an old man, his hair a snowy white, but he smiles with the vigor of a man in his twenties. His happiest moment? When The Iron Bull had finally agreed to marry him.

**The Iron Bull** spends his time in Tevinter defending Dorian and setting up a network of spies to help his lover gain much-needed information. It is through this network that he gains the information he needs to stop each and every assassination attempt on Dorian’s life. Of which there are many. He may have been reluctant to marry Dorian, but only because of the political implications. He never regrets the decision.

**Sera** goes to Tevinter as well, though she never stays long in any one place. She brings the Red Jennies with her, and works as invaluable support to Dorian. She feeds him information about which slaver is cruel, which is kind. Which masters are well-liked by their slaves...and who secretly wants to abolish slavery.

**Cole** returns to the fade. But even so, he keeps a sharp eye on his friends, often stopping by to say hello. The only ones he does not visit is Solas and Ellana. Because _they_ go see _him._

**Varric** returns to Kirkwall. When he is not feverishly working to aid the reconstruction, he is writing his newest historical document: “The Inquisition: shit gets weird”. He talks about Corypheus and the red lyrium. His pet dragon (though not the connection between the two) and the Breach. He even talks about the Inquisitor riding into battle upon the back of Fen’Harel. Solas is nothing but a mystic, his greatest strength his love for the Inquisitor. Ellana and Solas like it that way.

**Fenris and Hawke** return to Kirkwall as heroes once more. They move back into Hawke’s home in High Town and work with Varric on the reconstruction. They have three children. A set of twins, a boy and girl, who are completely devoted to their older sister. All three of them are mages. Hawke personally takes them to the newly-created circle in Kirkwall, and welcomes them back each holiday with a lavish party. Fenris growls at anyone who looks wrongly at his children, and loves them with a fierce protectiveness.

**Blackwall** is knighted for his actions during the final battle by the King of Orlais. Newly noble, he immediately proposes to Josephine. She accepts, he takes her name.

**Josephine** marries Blackwall in on the most beautiful and quickly-planned weddings ever seen. Every detail is sublime, and it comes together in a single month. It is talked about for years. The only thing more impressive is the determination with which she raises the name of Montilyet once again.

**The Warden** returns from his travels around the world, and heads immediately for Skyhold and the Nightingale. His news is of the best sort: he has managed to free himself from the blight. He asks for her hand in marriage.

**Leliana** is rumored to have married the Warden, but no one knows for sure - she keeps her secrets close to her chest. All that is known is that he arrives and speaks to her, the two of them go to the Inquisitor, and then are never seen again. One hopes that they are happy.

**Morrigan and Kieran** work on the eluvians as promised. For five long years she works diligently, with nary a complaint. Then, she and her son disappear into the crossroads one day, and are never seen again.

**The Inquisition** stays in place for many more years, supporting those made homeless by the war with Corypheus. It also provides money and supplies for the construction of Enlia’sileal. But it slowly loses power as all the members of the inner circle leave for their own personal adventures. After twenty years, the Inquisition is a defunct congregation of a few dozen individuals, and is formally disbanded.

**Feynriel** leaves the Inquisition immediately after the final battle. He goes to the Dalish clans that saw Fen’Harel, and speaks to them. For months, he travels from clan to clan, telling his tale. How he interrupted Fen’Harel with his lover in the fade, but was not punished. How Fen’Harel treated him with kindness, trained him in his abilities as a Dream Walker. And most especially how Fen’Harel had come to his aid, when he’d been captured. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Dalish come to believe.

**Ellana** stays with the Inquisition at first. But slowly her attention shifts to Enlia’sileal, and it is this inattention that allows the Inquisition to crumble. She is not concerned. Once the Inquisition is gone, she moves to Enlia’sileal, and oversees its construction. It is the work of several lifetimes to build the city - cities - into the culture of freedom and equality that she wants. But she has the time to spare, now.

**Fen’Harel** stays with the Inquisition for the first five years. But once Morrigan disappears, he leaves to complete her unfinished work. He returns to Ellana as often as he can, but there are thousands of eluvians to be repaired. By the time she has moved to Enlia’sileal, he has completed his mission. By this point, most of the Dalish have come to the city as well, and he is greeted by the people with a cautious welcome.

Enlia’sileal is completed within twenty years, but it takes many more for the society to settle down. It is ruled jointly by Ellana and Fen’Harel for most of that time. But they slowly lay down their burdens, allowing others to take them up. The transfer of power takes a dozen years, and it is done without any upset. Once free of their burdens, the couple disappears quietly into the night. They are missed, but the society is strong without them.

 

-

 

The couple approached the city with hoods down and heads held high. It had been a long time since they’d been here, and they looked around with eager eyes to see what had become of the place.

It had changed dramatically - and only for the better.

The trees they had planted so many years ago were behemoths now, bearing the weight of a city in their branches. What had once been dirt paths between them was now fine cobblestone roads, swept clean by magic and muscle. And the elves that had crept into its walls in the night now strode through with pride a mantle across their shoulders.

The dominant race was that of the elves, though there was no shortage of human and dwarven citizens. Even the qunari had a presence - and one that grew as the tal-vashoth gave up their marauding ways to begin again in the City of Wisdom. Trees spiraled into the sky, ramps like crystal twining around their trunks.

They came to the base of the largest, and passed through a checkpoint protected by gentle but sharp-eyed guards who gave directions as easily as they broke up an argument between two merchants. The squabblers were both denied entrance, much to the delight of the couple.

They passed through the archway and began the long trek up the spiral staircase, heckled by merchants in stalls nearly the whole way. The ones at the bottom were the essence of tourist traps, selling samples of branches and leaves, promising good health from teas brewed from the bark. But as they ascended, the merchants became more sophisticated, more cunning; their wares no longer made up of souvenirs, but more useful items like bolts of cloth or potions for rejuvenation.

The couple ignored them all, content to wander up the path hand-in-hand, sharing small smiles of joy at the things they saw.

They came to the top, shared a quiet whisper, and turned together to explore the city. An urchin, bright-eyed and well-fed, approached them with a hopeful look. “You need a guide, messers? I’ll take you around the whole city for five gold, and not just to the well-known places, either! I know all the spots the locals eat, small cafes where you can find the best live music, I even know a back-entrance to the gardens of Fen’Harel - you can get in for free!”

The woman threw her head back, laugher bright as birdsong upon the air. “Those are some bold claims for one so young!” she said with a smile. “For five gold you had better deliver!”

The man huffed, but it was a sound full of love, and he dug deft fingers into the pouch stitched into his belt. “Three gold now,” he told the child, dropping them - _one, two, three_ \- into the boy’s eager hands. “The last two when you return us here, safe from the guards in the garden.”

The coins disappeared before the couple could blink. “You have a deal, messer!”

The couple shared an amused glance, then followed in the boys wake, his happy chatter washing over them. He was quite the tour guide after all, knowledgeable about the origin of this building or that fountain, spouting off names and histories with practiced ease. They followed, absorbing it all, shoulders bumping playfully together.

“...and this is where the Great Wolf and his mate the goddess Lavellan fell in love!”

“Pardon me?” the woman asked, interrupting the boy for the first time.

He turned towards the couple, eager to expound. “The Great Wolf, Fen’Harel, and his wife the goddess Lavellan fell in love here, or so the stories say.”

“Is that so?” The man asked, voice carefully neutral. With just a _touch_ of amusement.

“Yes,” the urchin nodded eagerly. “She was mortal once, building the land here for the People. But so great was her grace and beauty, that she drew the Great Wolf from the Beyond. She called to him, and he came. She reached out her hand to him, and he touched her with his magic. He loved her instantly, you see, and gave her some of his immortality, so that she might live by his side forever.”

“What a wonderful thing to have done, for the woman he loved,” the man said, putting his arm around the woman’s waist and pulled her into his side in a move so natural he might have done it a million times. “She must have been a unique soul to have drawn his attention from the fade.”

“She was!” the urchin chirped, unconcerned with the way the woman’s face was slowly turning red. “She was a queen, in the days before the elves earned their freedom, ruling over a group of humans and dwarves who saw how special she was and made her their ruler.”

“My, my. How extraordinary she was,” the man said, nuzzling his nose against the woman’s cheek before dropping a light kiss upon the skin there.

“Yes, I’m sure Lavellan was a very remarkable person,” the woman said, pulling away from the man and clearing her throat awkwardly.

He watched her go with a mischievous smirk, and she threw him a nasty look - but it lacked any sort of heat.

“Where’s our next stop?” she asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

“Shall we go to the gardens?” the man asked, offering his hand to the woman.

“The gardens,” she said, taking his hand with a smile.

The boy leapt forward, leading the couple away, resuming his tour of the city.

 

-

 

The boy was really very good, sneaking them through a gap in the defensive wall around the garden.

“Mmm, terrible workmanship,” the woman said, pausing on the makeshift threshold to inspect the mortar between the stonework.

“Come now, _vhenan,”_ the man chided gently. “We don’t want to get the lad in trouble, do we?”

The woman started guiltily, then strode quickly to meet up with man and youth who were waiting for her several feet away.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, with a guilty smile. “I guess I got more into architecture than I thought.”

“Better you than me,” the man laughed, “you know _I_ have no head for it.”

“No, you never have!” she chuckled.

They were inside the gardens proper, and there was an absolutely stunning variety of flowers and shrubs on display. Here and there, dotted about to provide interest and shade, great trees rose from the grass, the walkways curving gracefully around them. Beyond, the immense branches of the _anelio_ tree hovered above it all.

“It really is amazing what they’ve managed to do,” the woman murmured to the man as they walked leisurely arm-in-arm.

“My dream,” the man agreed, his eyes sparkling with joy.

It had taken so much longer than he’d ever expected. Thousands and thousands of years. But this was finally the world he had expected to wake to that very first time. They had done this half a dozen times, now. Sleeping when they tired of the world, then waking to see the world with new eyes.

“Over here!”

The couple turned and saw the urchin waving to them from the shadowed insides of one of the small houses dotted around the garden. They approached him at a slow amble, teasing him with their slow pace. He scowled, and gestured for them to move faster.

When they finally came close enough, he spoke to them in an excited whisper, “look what I found!”

He turned and pointed behind him. When the couple saw what had excited him so, the breath caught in their throats.

“At last!” the woman said, fairly sparking with excitement. “I didn’t think it still existed!”

She released her hold on her companion and danced forward, almost pressing up against the glass in eagerness. Before her, behind a rope barrier and encased in a cube of charmed glass, was the staff of the Inquisitor. The woman who had earned the love of a god and been raised to divinity.

It was hers.

The man let out a satisfied grunt, and the woman turned to look for him. He wasn’t where she’d left him, and she ended up tilting to the side to peer around the edge of the glass to see him where he stood studying something.

“Did you see these?” he asked her without turning around. “They’re here, too.”

The woman abandoned the staff and trotted up to the man. Before him, inside their own rope/glass enclosure, was six wooden orbs, each with intricate designs carved into their surface.

“Ooh,” the woman cooed, stroking the glass appreciatively.

They shared a look of impish glee.

"Shall we?” the man asked, not bothering to hide his grin.

“Lets!”

They turned as one to face the staff. The man stepped forward, and the woman put her hands on his shoulders. Bracing him, and offering him her support. One hand came up, and he curled his fingers, as if grasping something. Then he made a wrenching, twisting motion, and the glass shattered. There was an invisible barrier that protected them from the shards, and they all fell harmlessly to the floor.

The boy yelped in alarm.

“It’s okay,” the woman soothed. “I’m just taking it back.”

She stepped forward, around her husband, and reached out with her left hand. Purple energy flared into existence, warning her off. Green magic sparked from her hand in response, and her hand seemed to vanish into the flair of energy. It reappeared next to the staff, disembodied but still moving. It clasped the staff, which accepted her touch where it had rejected all others, and she pulled. The hand - and staff - vanished into a wall of green light, only to reappear at the end of her arm, properly joined without hint of scar.

“How did you…?” the boy asked in a hushed whisper.

The man turned just his head towards the urchin, and drooped one eyelid at him in a slow, sly wink. “Magic.”

The urchin scoffed at the obvious answer, but before he could demand an explanation, a dwarf in formal robes of the Great Wolf came barreling out from beyond a curtained doorway. He stumbled to a halt, his eyes wide in panic as he took in the scene before him. Then he turned to look at the man and woman, a slow realization dawning in his eyes.

“M-my lord, my lady!” the dwarf stuttered, falling into an awkward bow. “I am sentinal Darig, if it pleases you.”

“No, no!” the woman said, moving towards him and urging him upright with a hand on his shoulder. “No need for all that. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I just wanted this back,” she gestured, rather sheepishly, with the hand that held the staff.

“It is yours!” Darig assured her. “It has always been yours. B-but…” he stuttered, wringing his hands. Then he paused, took a deep breath, and visibly got a hold of himself. “Forgive me. It is just very exciting. I never thought I would live to see the two of you in the flesh!” His eyes grew wide. “Oh! There is so much to do! I must arrange an announcement, your quarters must be prepared - we’ve kept them clean, of course, but they do get musty without use...and the faithful must be made aware of where to come offer their prayers. We have longed for your return these last thousand years - you will make all your followers very happy!

The man and woman stared at him awkwardly. Then the woman slung the staff onto her back in a move so smooth it required no thought.

“We’re only visiting,” she told the sentinel.

"You...will not stay?” the dwarf asked, crestfallen.

The gods shared a look.

“We have no desire to rule, or answer prayers from the faithful. We are not even truly gods, just powerful mages…” the man said, but knew even as he spoke that they would not listen. He sighed. It was always this way. He never had managed to discover what Dirthamen had done to remove the immortality from the people, nor what it was about the Anchor that gave it back to Ellana. After so many thousands of years, after entering and leaving _uthenara_ so often...was it any wonder they were gods once more?

“We will not stay _here,”_ the woman said. “We have only just awoken and do not yet know this new world.”

The dwarf nodded, bowing before his gods, even as he was obviously unhappy with their decree. The divine beings turned to go, but were interrupted by the sentinel once more.

“Please,” he said, “may we have some favor? The People have waited for you for so long...is there nothing with which I might prove your return?”

Lavellan smiled. “Why don’t you give it to him?” she asked her husband-god.

Fen’Harel paused for the briefest of moments, then turned back towards the sentinel. “This is the orb of dreams,” he told the dwarf, placing an intricately carved wooden orb into the man’s hands.

The sentinel gasped and cradled it gently, casting a glance over his shoulder at the six lined up behind him.

Fen’Harel smirked. “Did you think I could not make another?”

 

-

 

Ellana and Solas stepped from the gardens, trying their hardest to look like regal beings and not the giggling adolescents they felt like.

“I can’t believe we did that!” she choked out a gasp when she could hold it in no longer. “And it worked!”

“I told you it would,” Solas said smugly.

Ellana huffed. “Yes, yes, all right. The wards were ridiculously easy to break. I thought for sure they would have strengthened them after all this time.”

Solas pulled her close with one arm around her waist. “Why would they improve upon the wards laid down by the gods?” He swept his free arm out across the city glittering before them, ignoring the way she rolled her eyes at his words.. “Shall we explore this new world before us?” he asked his wife.

The look she gave him was wicked, and made his heart race.

“I don’t know. Is the Wolf worthy of walking at the side of his goddess?” she teased.

She pulled away, dancing backwards, laughing at him as she kept one step ahead of his grasping fingers.

He growled playfully, took a swipe and missed, both of them laughing freely.

“Come, Wolf,” Ellana taunted, crooking two fingers of a hand at him. “Catch me if you can!”

She turned and took of running, slipping through the crowd, leaving behind a trail of laughter. Solas paused for the space of a few heartbeats, giving her a lead before following behind.

“Run, my heart,” he whispered into the breeze, knowing it would reach her ears no matter where she went. “For the Wolf is at your heels, and he has your scent.”

  
_fin_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. It has been a true pleasure. Thank you to all who have read, reviewed, left a kudos, or recommended my little story online. It was lots of fun to write, and I am so very pleased at how well it has been received. There will likely not be anymore to this story. Hopefully the epilogue will have left you satisfied. Don't forget to read the next chapter! It's not part of the formal story, just scenes that were cut for various reasons. Not all are 'canon' for this story. 
> 
> Thank you all for joining me on this journey. It's been a blast. Ta ta for now!
> 
> Exia


	22. Extras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things left behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a conglomeration of scenes that were cut or changed for various reasons. Just because I thought It would be fun to share. Please read gently, there has been no editing to the sections, as they weren't intended for publication. Enjoy!

**Originally written for chapter 1, where he plays the musical instrument (rodhe’sil) for her. It gets a little...raunchy. Far too soon for the story. So I cut it. Here it is, as it was originally.**

“It is a musical instrument,” he told her, offering it back.

“Really?” she lifted it from his hands reverently, turning it over, searching for a way to make it reveal its secrets. “How do you play it?”

“With breath and finger placement.”

She held it out to him. “Show me?”

He paused. Dare he? _“Ma nuvenin.”As you wish._

He took it from her once again. He cupped the bottom side with his right hand, the smooth rock nestling comfortably in the curved palm of his hand. His left came up, fingers resting between the grooves at the top, his fingertips evenly spaced along the length of the opening in the stone. He brought the spout to his mouth, took a breath, and blew gently into its interior. As with all objects of Elvhenan, it required magic to work properly, and Solas imbued the air with a tinge of his magic. Unseen runes lit up along the length of the instrument, a softly glowing gold the color of sunrise.

The sound that emerged was quiet, so as not to wake their companions. A low note, powerful but sad, warbling gently in the air. Then it rose, sliding through the register to a higher, sweeter sound. A bird’s trill upon the morning air, hope blooming in a heart. Then down again in a sensuous glide, a promise of unknown pleasures in the dark. It fluttered there, drawing out thoughts of hands in secret places, wet warmth upon skin. A slow pulse and glide, two bodies merged as one. Ellana’s breath grew short as she sunk into the sound then - up again the music soared sharp and high, tickling hands upon ribs and she giggled at the sensation. Solas lowered the instrument, the colors died, the sound faded away.

Ellana gasped as the sensations abruptly cut short. “Wh...wow. That was…”

“Elvhenan was a world of physical delights, its people sensuous and free with affections. Their music reflects this reality.” He offered it back to her, eyes unreadable.

Ellana didn’t know what to think. “What is it called?” She made no move to take it back; she wanted to hear those notes again.

_“Rodhe’sil,”_

Ellana frowned, trying to pick the word apart. She shook her head, “I don’t know that one.”

“ ‘ _Rodhe’_ is taste, or flavor. _‘sil’_ is thought, or mind. It is a poetic language, so _rodhe’sil_ would be more accurately translated as ‘flavor of the mind’,” Solas told her. “A phrase that makes no sense in the Common tongue. It requires understanding of nature of the instrument itself. As you experienced, the music is more than sound, it is thought and emotion as well. It is whatever the musician puts into it, whatever they desire the audience to experience.”

Ellana thought of the dark notes at the end, the pleasurable throb they had drawn from her. He was so aloof most of the time. But then he would do something unexpected, like the flirtation earlier, or the _music_ now. These bursts of emotion were the whole reason she kept trying. He never - not once - told her to back of. Never said no. If he had, she would have left him alone, retreated behind professional curtesy. But though he was slow to respond, he was responding. And in remarkably forward ways, too. And so she felt confident in her pursuit.

She leaned towards him, placed one hand upon the rodhe’sil where he offered it to her, but instead of taking it, she wrapped her fingers around it - and his hand. “It’s beautiful,” she told him, her voice soft and intimate. “You play it well. The _sounds,”_ she deliberately drew upon how they had made her feel at the end, before he had ended it with laughter. Butterflies took off in her stomach, the feeling sinking lower, the pulse of her heartbeat between her legs. She looked into his eyes, knowing that what she was feeling would show in them. “You are very good with your mouth.”

He swayed towards her, as if drawn by her proximity and she wondered if he would finally kiss her. His free hand came up, moving as if to tuck a strand of hair behind her ears. But her hair was cropped short, failing to provide him with an excuse to touch her. He did it anyway, and she sucked in her breath as the tips of two fingers followed the line of the top of her ear to its crest, then down and around the bottom to reach her neck. He followed it, stopping only when he encountered the fabric of her tunic. She tilted her head slightly, inviting him, and his face abruptly closed.

“Have a good evening, Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor Lavellan stared in disbelief as he pulled his hand from hers, allowing the _rodhe’sil_ to fall to the ground. He stood without another word, stepping into the tent he shared with Blackwall without ever looking back.

 

-

 

**This was a difficult scene for me. I wrote it three different ways. The is the most recent of ones that was cut. Solas is teaching Feynriel how to manipulate the fade from the physical world, without sleeping. They attract a crowd. Solas wants the watchers to scamper, but Dorian and Feynriel gang up on him, and convince him to teach the assembled mages.**

“It is not that I do not want to teach, it is that they can make no use of the knowledge. And more than that, even should they desire to store it away for the next Dreamer, it will do them almost _no_ good. You can write all you want about fade manipulation and dream walking, but the Beyond is not something that can be _described._ It must be _experienced._ And only Dreamers can see it as it really is.” Solas shook his head, leading the way out, now that the room was clear. “Come.”

Every mage in the hold was waiting in the training yard, faces expectant. Even Vivienne. And Morrigan. Solas looked around, gauging just how many people had arrived. _Hundreds._ He shook his head. Ridiculous.

He turned to look at Feyrniel. “I’m afraid you will not learn much today, my friend. I will need to explain the basics of Dream Walking to them, and that will take much of my time.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Feynriel offered, eager to watch the Dread Wolf share his knowledge with others.

Solas nodded. “Yes. If you wouldn’t mind demonstrating various techniques as I describe them. Perhaps even help me with the explanations. It has been a long time since I spoke to so many.”

Feynriel grinned, and nodded.

Solas moved to the front of the group, gestured at the ground, and a large rectangular section of it rose up, providing him a platform on which to stand. Murmurs ran around the assembled mages, to see him manipulating the earth so easily. It was not something any of them had ever managed. The two Dreamers mounted the platform, and Solas reached up and touched the side of his neck with a finger.

“For those of you who do not know me,” Solas said, speaking no louder than normal, even as his voice seemed to carry to those in the back, “my name is Solas. This,” he gestured at Feynriel, “is Feynriel, my apprentice. We are Dream Walkers. Somniari.”

A ripple ran through the crowd. It was one thing to hear rumors, quite another to have it confirmed from the man’s own mouth.

“I had intended to only teach Feynriel. But given the overwhelming interest, I have decided to share what I know with all of you. However,” he said, raising a hand and quelling the spiking excitement, “what you will hear will not do you much good. Much like being a mage is not a choice, neither is being a Dreamer a choice. It is an innate talent.” He folded his hands behind his back and began to pace slowly back and forth.

“Mages are cognizant of when they dream. You are aware that you are in the Beyond, that the things you see are fabrications of your subconscious mind, or created from the will of spirits you encounter. It is the same for a Dreamer. But where you stop at simply being _aware,_ or being able to dismiss the dream at best, a Dreamer is able to take full control of their dreams. Feynriel can shape the fade to his will as a spirit does. He can also banish demons from his presence, so long as they are not more powerful than he is.”

Feynriel, standing behind Solas, nodded his head.

“He can also view the fade as it is.” Solas paused. “You know that spirits - some spirits - desire things in this world. Covet bodies or emotions. This is because the fade is a reflection of the physical world. In places where events have occurred that have drawn the attention of spirits: battles, or great political upheaval, the memories are pressed into the fade. A living record of what has passed. When a Dreamer sleeps in such places, they can actually dream of ages long past.” He smiled. “I find ruins of Elvhenan particularly appealing.”

Feynriel suppressed a snort. Of _course_ Fen’Harel found Elvhenan appealing.

“I am an apostate. I have never been inside a circle, and I have never lived with the Dalish. I am almost entirely self-taught. I have, on occasion, traded secrets with other Dreamers as I encountered them, but most of what I know is through trial and error, or through the kind lessons from spirits I encountered.”

The mages grumbled in disbelieve and censure.

Solas shook his head. “There are spirits in the fade that wish no harm upon the waking world. Indeed, there are many who have almost no interest in it at all. You know of the demons. Pride, envy, lust. But you do not know of Wisdom or Love or Compassion. Rarely do these spirits interact with you, for you are hostile to everything you see in the Beyond, and they are fragile.”

Feynriel stepped forward, and Solas ceded the floor to him.

“I have seen many remarkable things in the fade,” Feynriel told them. “Perhaps the most remarkable was the evolution of Lust into Love.” Feynriel gestured at Fen’Harel, “Solas is fond of saying that a demon is simply a spirit whose purpose has been twisted. I watched a demon of lust tempt a man. He was no mage, and could not see the demon for what it was. I was weak, then. A new somniari. I did not yet know how to shape the fade, or drive demons away. All I could do was watch as the demon attempted to drive the man into a frenzy. It took the image of his love, threw itself at him, stoking his ardor into a blazing fire. And though the man believed the demon, he refused to fall into its madness. Where it demanded, he gave. Where it was harsh, he was kind. Night after night, I witnessed this man as he slowly taught the demon the joy of giving to the ones you love. Of gifting himself to his lover. I would not have believed it, if I had not seen it with my own eyes. But this man’s kind and giving heart removed the sickness from the spirit, allowing it to be Love again.” Feynriel smiled softly with the memory. “I am stronger now, and have since sought out the spirit that is now Love. It has found a small village. It watches the young women as they grow, and once they are old enough, guides them to the young men of the village who will love them with the same gentle kindness that the man taught it. I call it the Matchmaker, and no village has ever been more blessed.”

Solas stepped forward, to stand beside his apprentice. “The fade is a complex, fathomless place where the imagination becomes reality, and nothing and everything is real. For those with the talent to see, it becomes a wondrous world full of secrets to uncover. It can be dangerous, for there are things that hunger. But as with everything else in life, temperance and moderation are your defenses. And should you open your eyes to the Beyond, you just might see Wisdom. Or Compassion. Or Love.”

 

-

 

**My first attempt at the first official meeting between Abelas, Solas, and Ellana after the sentinels take refuge in Skyhold. Didn’t fit with the theme I was going for.**

The next morning, Solas lead Ellana directly across the Great Hall to the Undercroft.

“I thought we were going to see Abelas?” she asked, as she followed him down the stairs.

“Oh, your elves are here, all right,” Dagna spoke up, voice filled with excitement. “Only I don’t know where they went!”

Ellana stared at the Arcanist blankly.

Solas glanced at Ellana, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m afraid that I have not been entirely honest with you, Inquisitor,” he said, without a shred of apology in his tone.

“Solas!” Ellana’s hand flew to her chest in overblown grief. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Skyhold is rather larger than it appears at first glance.”

“You’re telling me!” Dagna put in. “I _know_ there are more rooms, lots of them! The base of Skyhold is _way_ larger than it should be for the insides to fit.”

“You certainly are clever, Dagna,” Ellana said with a shake of her head. “I had no idea.”

“Here.” Solas walked over to what seemed to be an unassuming bit of blank wall. “Dagna, why do you not have any tools or equipment stored here?” he asked innocently.

Dagna shrugged. “I dunno. It’s just not the right space for it. Nothing seems to fit quite right. It’s all right, though. I’ve got plenty of storage.”

“Indeed,” Solas said, and though his face and voice gave nothing away, Ellana just _knew_ that he was laughing at them.

“All right, Solas. What’s so special about that bit of wall?”

“Nothing at all, Inquisitor,” Solas said, and walked straight through it.

 _“What?”_ Dagna squawked. “Where did he go? Messer Solas was just here, wasn’t he?”

The Inquisitor just laughed. “It’s a not a wall, Dagna! It’s an arch! I didn’t even see it until he moved to stand under it.”

“Wait, you can still see him?” Dagna moved up, so close her nose was almost brushing the wall. “All I see it stone.”

Solas cleared his throat, blushing from the tips of his ears down past the neckline of his tunic. He’d been forced to stumble backwards at her approach. As a child of the stone, Dagna was rather too short to be getting that close to….

“Dagna,” Ellana said, barely suppressing her laughter, making it sound rather like something was caught in her throat. “You can’t see it, Dagna. I think it’s because you have no magic. Come away, and Solas will step back through.”

“Of course, Inquisitor!” Dagna said, skipping away to stand at Ellana’s side.

Solas took a second to will his blush away, then stepped away from the arch.

“There you are!” Dagna called. “Where did you go?”

Ellana glanced down at Dagna in confusion. “He came back through the arch.”

Dagna looked at the Inquisitor blankly. “What arch?”

“I am afraid that is my fault, Inquisitor. The doorway is spelled. She will forget its existence every time someone walks through it. If she had magic of her own, we would only need to tell her of it, or let her see someone walking through, and she would remember. But as a Child of the Stone,” he shrugged. “I’m afraid the memory will never firmly take root.”

“Why would you need that sort of magic here?” Ellana asked him, stepping up at his gesture to walk through the arch, leaving a very confused Dagna behind.

Faintly, they could hear the Arcanist say, “Weren’t the Inquisitor and Messer Solas just here?”

Solas gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid I was a bit of a prankster in my youth. I would have given Sera quite the challenge. It was a minor game I played with new servants. I would go to the armory to pick out a new sword or dagger...and vanish, only to reappear at a totally different point in the keep, without ever going back through the Great Hall.”

Ellana shook her head. “Sometimes, it’s so hard to imagine you as the Trickster. Then you go and say something like that, and I remember all over again.”

He smiled, reaching out to lace their fingers together. “This leads to the aviary. Or the stables.”

Before she could ask, they exited from the hallway into an enormous room, veilfire lights placed along the walls. The roof was lit with what would best be described as a chandelier. But no metal could be so delicate, no crystal so glistening. Half-moon depressions were carved into the rock on the floor at regular intervals, while the back half of the left wall had innumerable shelves cut into its face. And the whole far end was open air, a ledge jutting out into free space. Abelas and his elvhen occupied the grand room, talking in clusters or lounging in the depressions.

They were greeted casually with nods. A few called them by name. But none stopped what they were doing. None bowed to Fen’Harel, or looked at Ellana with worshiping eyes.

Excited at the idea of walking, not unremarked, but _unaccosted_ through a room lit up Ellana’s face in a gleeful grin. “This is _marvelous,”_ she whispered loudly to Solas.

He cast his eyes in her direction. “We had gryphons living here, once upon a time. Flying on their backs was an experience.”

Ellana looked back at the depressions in the ground. “Nests?” she asked, excited all over again.

Solas nodded, Ellana squealed, and Abelas approached them. “My lord?” he asked respectfully, with a confused glance at the Inquisitor.

Ellana controlled herself with an effort of will. _“Ir abelas._ Fen’Harel was just telling me what this room had once been used for. Gryphons are extinct now, and I’m afraid I let my excitement get the better of me.”

Abelas softened, smiling slightly. “My heart grieves to hear that. They were one of Ghilan’an’s finest creations.”

“It was a great loss,” Ellana agreed. “Are your people adequately supplied? Is there anything you require? I know you did not receive the warmest of welcomes, and I apologize again for that. Please, let me make it up to you by acquiring anything you need.”

“Perhaps you could tell us where we are allowed to hunt? We have not yet fed this day.”

The Inquisitor looked at him in horror. “None of you have eaten yet? It’s past mid-day!” She rounded on her lover. “Solas-”

Solas held up both his hands in an effort to placate her. “I am not the ruler of the keep. By custom, _you_ must be the one to give them leave to hunt, or sit at your tables. This is why I urged you to visit them early.”

Ellana sighed and nodded. “You’re right, of course.” She turned back to Abelas. “You may hunt anything in these lands that you care to. Everything within three day’s walk belongs to the Inquisition - to me. But, you need not feel that you must hunt to eat. You are welcome at any table here, day or night. For food or for company. Should any of your armor or weapons need repair, you may call upon my Arcanist to repair them. Alternatively, you may do the work yourself, should you desire. Any and all areas and amenities of Skyhold are open to you, save someone’s private quarters - which I ask you to respect. You are not prisoners, but guests, and you may come and go as you please.”

Abaelas stared at her, utterly without words. Solas, who had been quietly translating to the room, smirked. Ellana glanced around, uncomfortable.

“What did I say?” she asked Solas. “Was I rude somehow?”

“On the contrary, _emma lath_ , you have treated them like freemen.” Solas’ voice was bursting with pride.

Ellana paused, focusing on the new phrase. He did that sometimes, throwing bits of El’vhen’an into conversation, and letting her puzzle it out. But this one was easier than most. _Emma_ was personal: me or my. And _lath_ was love. She grinned at figuring it out, but then frowned again as the rest of his sentence registered.

“Why wouldn’t I treat them as freemen?”

Abelas raised one shaking hand to his face, fingers flowing down the lines of Mythal on his forehead. “Because we are not,” he told her in a whisper.

Ellana’s frown deepened into a scowl. _“No,”_ she told Abelas fiercely. “You _are_ free. I don’t _care_ about the _vallaslin_ upon your face. Until Mythal comes through my door and demands service of you, your decisions are your own. _You_ are responsible for you - and no other.”

Abelas, and all the other elvhen, bowed low to her in gratitude.

_“Ma serran-en, asha’hanin. Dar’el’enansal.”_

_Our thanks, lady of glory. You are our blessing._

 

-

 

**Originally, Abelas was going to follow the Inquisitor and her companions as she went after the darkspawn outside the Gryphon Keep. But it got cut, in favor of them going straight to the southern areas to meet with the Avvar. Unlike the other scenes, this one actually happened in the story. I just saw no reason to show it, when it did nothing but cover information we're already familiar with. Here it is, unedited.**

Despite her annoyance with a certain Tevinter, Ellana did not take him or The Iron Bull with her out to the wastes. At least _someone_ should be getting some. Now if only Solas would return…

Ellana shook her head to clear her thoughts, bringing a hand up to shade the sun from her eyes. A ripple passed through the air, and the dazzle went out of the sun, even though the light was undiminished.

“What is that?” Cassandra asked, curious but not alarmed. She’d lost much of her wariness of new magic, since the formation of the Inquisition.

Though she suspected Abelas was the source, Ellana replied. “It keeps the sun from being so bright in our eyes, while still allowing us to see. Clever, no?”

“You dazzle all the same,” Cole put in, confused.

The Inquisitor laughed and dropped back to walk next to the spirit, patting him gently on the shoulder. “And I’m sure I always will, Cole. No spell will dampen my light!”

“That would be a scary spell,” Cole agreed.

“Frick’n weird, is what it is,” Sera mumbled. _Her_ distrust of all things magical hadn’t waned in the slightest. She looked over at Abelas, not fooled by Ellana’s misdirection. “You gotta be so elfy all the time?” she accused.

“Silence, child.” Abelas returned.

“Thbt!” Sera blew a raspberry at him rudely, then stalked off to the front of the line.

Ellana sighed and dropped back farther, to walk next to the sentinal, whose eyes were always scanning the horizon. “I’m sorry,” she told him quietly. She spoke to him almost exclusively in Common, not nearly confident enough in her bumbling El’vhen’an to attempt more than a few words to him in it. With how much the language had shifted from that which he spoke, they could only occasionally understand each other. It saddened her to realize that they could communicate better in the language of the humans. “She’s...got a thing with elves.”

“That is plain.”

Ellana struggled with something to say, a way to open the door to a true conversation with him. It was so awkward knowing him as an elvhen. One who had been alive before the fall of Elvhenan. It made her grateful that Solas hadn’t shared that information until after they’d developed a rapport. “Still. I’m grateful for the spell. Would you teach it to me once we make camp?”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, considering. “As you wish, asha’hanin.”

Ellana winced. “You don’t have to-” the words died in her throat as he held up a hand.

“I have watched you. I know that you do not like the titles bestowed upon you. But you are a leader deserving of respect. And nothing you shall say will stop me from giving it.”

He said it so calmly, placidly, as if they spoke about the weather. What could she possibly do that would change his mind?

She shot him a sly glance. “What if I gave you an order?”

Humor caused his eyes to sparkle, even as his face remained blank. “Was it not you who said you did not rule me?”

Ellana huffed, but said no more. At least she’d discovered that he had a sense of humor.

They stayed in the Keep that night, it was the most secure place to bed down and the path across the acid wastes was no more than an hour’s walk away. Abelas spent several hours prowling around, observing architecture that was human in origin. He was...intrigued...by the things he saw. It twisted in illogical ways. To head up, one must first go down. A path to the right inevitably lead you somewhere on the left. It made navigation difficult, but it would be an utter nightmare for an invading force. He heard from the forces stationed there (who thought him a simple Dalish elf. Dalish!) that asha’hanin had stormed the keep with three of her companions and had managed to miraculously clear it of the enemies before the main bulk of her force moved in to claim it. An impressive feat indeed.

He followed her because he was curious. About this Inquisition that she commanded, about the world run by humans, about who she was, to have garnered the attention of Fen’Harel. He was known for keeping himself apart, and refused to bow to anyone. But here he was, tying himself to asha’hanin willingly, following her lead gladly. She’d told him that she only ever traveled with three companions, four being a nice, small group that could move quickly. Five was odd, awkward. He understood, but would not be deterred. To ease the lopsided nature of the powers, Abelas altered his fighting style to better mesh with the team. When they were weak in melee, he used his daggers. When they were weak on mages, he used magic. It was a skill that asha’hanin seemed to appreciate, even if the others were left uncomfortable with the fluidity. Or, as Sera had so eloquently put it after she’d watched him cast a fire glyph on his dagger and stick it in a man’s back, causing the fire to light the unfortunate soul up from the inside, “Mages shouldn’t be able to _do_ things like that! S’all wrong!”

Ellana had simply asked to learn how to replicate the technique.

Reminded of his promise, Abelas turned back towards the others in the hunting party, their tents pitched along the side wall of the main level. He could hear voices as he approached, and slowed his steps to listen.

“ ‘E’s _creepy_ is what he is! Tell him to go away!”

Sera, no doubt objecting to his presence. Again. How had Fen’Harel’s people become so spineless? Once, they had stood tallest of them all. Abelas wondered how Solas got along with her.

The Inquisitor sighed, lowering the fabric she was darning so that she could give her full attention to the archer. “He’s not part of the Inquisition, Sera. I can’t order him around. If he chooses to follow us - and can keep up - I certainly can’t stop him, short of a brawl. And not only is that a bad idea,” asha’hanin didn’t seem concerned with the gleam that had started to flicker in Sera’s eye at the word ‘brawl’, “but I wouldn’t win a fight like that with him anyway. _And,”_ she gave Sera a stern look and Abelas knew she’d seen it after all, “not only am I not going to start anything, I forbid _you_ from trying as well.”

Sera slouched. “He’s not right, that one.”

“Abelas is the most experienced fighter I’ve ever seen,” asha’hanin said softly, and Abelas stepped into the shadows as he settled in to listen. “He’s graceful and powerful. His magic is as strong as mine, but he’s got _centuries_ of control. His trick earlier with the sun? I can vaguely guess how he went about it, but…” she shook her head. “It’s such a subtle technique. I never would have thought of it myself. He has ancient knowledge that we thought lost. I know you don’t care about Elvhenan, Sera. But it isn’t fair of you to scoff at the things I care about. I don’t scoff at your Red Jennies, do I? They are invaluable at helping the ‘little guys’ as you put it. I think you do great things, and I help you as much as I can, don’t I? You may not understand _why_ I care about Abelas and what he has to teach, but please stop being so difficult about it.”

Sera sat in silence as she absorbed the Inquisitor’s words. Then, “All right, Quizzy. I getcha. This is like that Thing, isn’t it? Agree to disagree? I can do that. Just don’t go anymore elfy on me.”

Asha’hanin smiled slightly. “I make no promises on that front, Sera. But I _do_ promise to continue to care about you, and your Jennies, and the little guys. And I hope you’ll continue to ensure I don’t get a big head.”

Sera leaned over and socked the Inquisitor gently on the shoulder with her fist. Not enough to harm asha’hanin, but she did rock with the blow.

“You got it, Quizzy!”

After a few more moments, Sera retreated to her tent, and Abelas emerged from the shadows to sit beside asha’hanin.

“That was quite impressive,” he told her.

She sighed. “I should have known that you were listening. How much did you hear?”

“Most, I believe,” he paused, “why does she detest elvhen so much?”

Asha’hanin began to work on her darning again, her voice soft in the night wind. “I’m not really sure. My best guess is that she hates how the servants are treated so much, she wants them _all_ to be treated better. Not just elves. Maybe she’s come up against the ‘elf-servant-lower-class’ thing so much that she refuses to be an elf at all. Her favorite saying is ‘we’re all just people’. And that is something I can completely understand. I may want to create a home for the People, but I have no intention of restricting it to just elves. If a human, or a dwarf, or a qunari wants to live there, then _I_ want them to live there. I want this place - wherever we find a home for it - to be a place where _everyone_ can be free and equal together. It’s...something that’s never been done before, so I’m not sure how to go about it…” she trailed off, staring into the fire.

“A noble goal, Asha’hanin. And I am relieved to hear that you would accept all races in your new country.” Abelas said, quietly.

“You...are?” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I would have expected you to want a purely elven country.”

“Why?” he he leaned back, searching for stars beyond the firelight.

“Well, because you’re…” she made a vague gesture.

“As I am sure Solas has told you, the biggest problem with the Empire of Elvhenan was how differently the elvhen were treated, based upon nothing other than their birth. Something completely beyond their control. I serve Mythal, freely and gladly. But I would not have done so, had she not fought with Fen’Harel to undo the injustice of the society. By the end…” he sighed, lowering his gaze. “By the end, none were free; save the people of Fen’Harel. We, the sentinels, were saved from the quickening by withdrawing and killing all who approached.”

Asha’hanin nodded slowly. “He told me that he didn’t know how Elgar’nan and Dirthamen had done it, and wished for another elvhen to study, for comparison against the elves. He hopes to find a way to undo it.”

Abelas turned incredulous eyes on her. Did she not know? Had he not told her? Was she not born this way? He spoke hesitantly, “Asha’hanin, you should be made aware that you are elvhen.”

She smiled. “Not quite. Not yet anyway. We don’t know what started it, or how. I’m still changing. He doesn’t know how long it will take to be complete. I’m somewhere in the middle between elf and elvhen, at the moment. He suspects this,” she held up her hand, where the mark glowed faintly, “has something to do with it. But he’s not yet had time to study.”

“I...see.”

There was a lull in the conversation. And it was not until Asha’hanin was putting her stitching away, that Abelas spoke again.

“Will you tell me of these darkspawn we hunt?”

She froze, her eyes blown wide in surprise. “That’s....not a good idea.” She settled back in her seat, frowning. “Actually, it’s a _very_ good idea, I just don’t know how you’ll take it.”

He cocked his head at her, birdlike. “Is it a terrible secret?”

“Not...as such?” she blew out a breath, ruffling the short bangs that fell over her naked brow. No _vallaslin_ for the mate of the Great Wolf. “It’s a more complex answer than you think. The darkspawn aren’t just some group of mercenaries.”

“I had gathered as much. But no-one seems willing to discuss them.”

She nodded, unsurprised. “All right. But settle in, this will take a while.”

Abelas sat up, folded his legs, and straightened his back, resting his hands lightly on his knees, taking on the position of rapt attention. Asha’hanin looked briefly surprised, then began to speak.

“The Tevinter Emperium was the next empire that rose to power after the fall of Elvhenan. Until you awoke and told us differently, it was understood that Tevinter rose up and crushed the People, enslaving those that did not escape. They ruled all of what is now Orlais and Ferelden. They still exist, but less than half of their former strength, now just one country among many.

“They were still at the height of their power when the darkspawn emerged from the deep roads, having already crushed the mighty dwarven empire. They swept through Tevinter, killing or corrupting everything they touched in what has come to be known as a blight. They were lead by a mighty dragon - the archdemon - and it cost Tevinter much to drive them back underground. In the aftermath of the blight, the slaves of Tevinter rose up against their masters, taking advantage of the weakened state of the country. Lead by an elf known as Shartan, and a human woman known as Andraste,” she nodded when Abelas made a sound of recognition. He’d heard that name before. “the slaves formed a mighty army, drawing many to their cause. They won their freedom, breaking Tevinter’s hold on the land. From their rebellion came many of the countries we have now. Nevarra, Orlias, Ferelden...and the religion of Andrase was born. The holy write of Andraste is the Chant of Light. It says many things. About magic and someone they call the ‘Maker’, as well as explaining the origin of the darkspawn, blights, and archdemons.

“According to the Chant, the Maker is the creator of everything, every race and species, every plant and tree. The magesters of the Tevinter Emperium became so prideful and gluttonous for power, that they desired to enter the Golden City in the Beyond, which is the seat of the Maker himself. They sacrificed thousands of slaves upon blood altars, harvested their lives, and cracked open the City. For their hubris, the Maker cursed them, and cast them out, making them the first darkspawn. He then turned his eyes away from his children, abandoning them and abandoning the City, for it had turned black with their sin. But Andraste prayed to him, sang, called with her whole heart for the Maker to return to the people and she was so beautiful and good that the Maker answered. _He_ is the reason Andraste lead such a successful rebellion, the power behind her cause.

“She was betrayed, in the end, by her mortal husband, who grew jealous of the love and devotion Andraste had garnered in the Maker. She was burned at the stake, and though it is said that she sits at the Maker’s side as his Bride, he has once again abandoned the people for what was done to his beloved. It is said that until the Chant of Light is sung in all corners of the world, the Maker will not return.” She paused, allowing him to absorb all that she had said. Then, “Oh! One thing you _must_ know about darkspawn, and this is no story. Their blood is infectious, it is an incurable disease that eventually turns you into one of them. There is an organization, the Grey Wardens, who are said to be immune, but it also makes them part darkspawn, which is how Corypheus controlled them. He still holds too many in his thrall. When we fight tomorrow, keep their blood away from you at all costs.”

Abelas nodded in understanding, appreciating both the warning and the lesson. “What do you believe?” he asked at last.

Asha’hanin blew out a breathy laugh. “Now _that’s_ the question, isn’t it? The Inquisition believes that I am the Herald of Andraste. That I am here at her - or the Maker’s - behest, to stop Corypheus. I believe that I am a victim of unfortunate events, and I am making the most of a bad decision. As far as darkspawn, I believe that the City is the source of the blight as well as the red lyrium. Was it created by the Maker? That, I don’t know. As Solas likes to say, ‘the idea of a god who need not prove himself is alluring, but I cannot follow any religion that would use Exalted Marches.’ “ Seeing Abelas’ confused look, she went on, “after the fall of the Tevinter Empire, Shartan and his elves were granted the land of the Dales, and they created a new city: Halam’shiral. But after the second blight (one in which they refused to help fight, even though they too were threatened) tensions were high between the humans and the elves. There was a misunderstanding...a village was slain...and the humans waged a holy war against the elves for not following the Maker. What was once the seat of a new elven power, is now the Winter Palace, where the throne of the Orlesean empire resides.”

“It seems the humans are not to be trusted,” Abelas offered.

“It’s...not that simple. The elves were just as much to blame for what happened at Halam’shiral. They abandoned the world, when it needed them the most.”

“ ‘They?’ “ Abelas asked mildly.

Asha’hanin flushed. “I’m as bad as Solas now, aren’t I? He doesn’t identify with either the elves in the alienages, or the Dalish. I was raised Dalish, with the _vallaslin._ But Solas removed it, at my request.” She paused. “I don’t really identify with any group of elves now, except perhaps the old People ruled by Fen’Harel in the days of Elvhenan. I’m no alienage elf to cringe at a human, but neither am I Dalish to venerate the Creators.” She looked at Abelas, and her eyes burned. “I’ve lost more than I’ve gained. But what I have gained is worth so much more than anything I thought I had. The Dalish think they know the way of the world; they wander, waiting endlessly for the empires of man to fall. They’ve been waiting almost eight hundred years. And nothing has changed, except that their numbers dwindle, and more and more history is lost. I’m tired of waiting. I want to build a future for the People, not wait for it to fall in my lap.”

Abelas finally relaxed his posture, leaning backwards on his hands once again. “Elvhen indeed,” he murmured.

“Thank you. That...means a lot. Coming from you.”

“Has not Solas said the same?”

“He has, but…” she shrugged. “He’s also biased.”

Abelas laughed for the first time in Ellana’s presence, and she thought it a lovely sound. “I wonder what he would say, should you speak such words before him.”

Ellana grinned impishly. “I have. He spluttered. It was beautiful.”

Abelas’ grin was full of teeth. “I believe I promised to teach you the spell?”

“You did!” Ellana adopted the pose Abelas had so recently abandoned: legs folded, spine straight, head up, hands on knees. Ready to learn.

 

-

 

They assaulted the darkspawn the following morning, and it was apparent from the way Abelas hung back that he had taken the Inquisitor’s warning from the night before to heart. They made good time, despite their care in not getting blighted, and were soon working their way up to the top of a ridge. They turned a corner, and Ellana’s face went pale.

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked, catching a glimpse of the elf’s features. “Is something the matter?”

“It’s a rift,” Ellana said, faintly nauseous.

“...yes. Is that a problem?” Cassandra said warily.

Ellana held up her marked hand, the glow of the anchor so much dimmer than it was when she’d first gotten it more than a year ago. “I can’t close rifts with it anymore. It’s not strong enough.”

“What!” Cassandra demanded, spinning around and grabbing in Inquisitor’s hand with both of hers, the metal along her fingers squeaking angrily. “How? Since when?”

The rest of the group gathered round, eyes curious, and Ellana swallowed her first words.

“Since Adamant. When Fen’Harel sucked power from it to fight the Nightmare.”

“But you’ve closed rifts since then, Quizzy. I’ve seen it.” Sera objected.

“With Solas’ help.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “He said he couldn’t affect the rifts.”

Ellana tugged her hand loose in annoyance. “He _can’t._ We work together. I connect with them them, then through the mark, he closes them. I don’t have the power, and he doesn’t have touch. It’s a team effort.”

 

-

 

**In the epilogue, after the urchin tells the couple the story of Fen’Harel and the goddess Lavellan, the woman tells her own tale of how the Great Wolf and his goddess fell in love. I decided that it had the couple acting far too superior and snotty.**

“Yes,” the urchin nodded eagerly. “She was mortal once, building the land here for the People. But so great was her grace and beauty, that she drew the Great Wolf from the Beyond. She called to him, and he came. She reached out her hand to him, and he touched her with his magic. He loved her instantly, you see, and gave her some of his immortality, so that she might live by his side forever.”

The woman bit her lip and looked away, eyes bright with suppressed laughter. The man put his arm around her waist and pulled her into his side in a move so natural he might have done it a million times.

“Now, now, _vhenan,”_ the man told the woman chidingly. “It is not nice to laugh at the boy.”

The urchin, insulted, drew himself up. “At least I _know_ the story,” he asserted with all the dignity of a wounded ten year old.

The woman turned back, utterly contrite. “I am sorry, _da’len._ It was very unkind of me.” She pulled free of the man’s arm, moving to kneel before the boy. “It’s just that I am from clan Lavellan, and the tale we tell is, well. Rather different.”

The boy’s face lit up, all injury forgotten as he began to almost bounce in place. “You’re actually from clan Lavellan? _The_ clan Lavellan? The one the goddess came from? Please, please, _please_ tell me some stories of her? I won’t even ask for the last two gold! I would get so much more from other people, if I had tales from her clan!”

The man laughed, a sound deep and rich with joy. The urchin though he had probably never known a day of sorrow in his life. “With a request like that, how could we resist?”

 _“Vhenan!”_ the woman said in objection.

“Oh, no,” the man said, still laughing. “You began this. Either tell the boy the tale, or I will.”

The woman huffed, but when she turned back to the boy, she did not seem so very upset after all. Maybe that’s what happened when you let someone else steal your heart - you stopped being able to be mad at them.

“How about we go to the shop? I’d rather sit for this tale.” The woman gestured at the little restaurant at the side the specialized in flavored ice.

Without being asked, the woman bought a ice for the urchin, two scoops - one chocolate and one vanilla. How lucky he was to have found these two! All the others would be jealous when he told them!

Even so, the boy listened raptly as the woman began her tale.

 

-

 

_The goddess Lavellan was born to the clan of the same name, a mage in an age when mages were still feared. The sky split because of an evil wizard, and through luck and chance she found herself at the heart of the solution. She had been cursed by the evil wizard, you see, and the curse was killing her. The Great Wolf, sensing her distress, came forth and touched her with his power, saving her life. But he was a very impressive Wolf, and for a time she feared him. But with patience, he earned her trust and love. But the goddess Lavellan was torn, for there was a man among her companions to whom she had also given her heart. Two men - one mortal, one divine - each loved by her in their own way. Her heart cried out, ripped in two. Then her mortal heart took her to a sacred place, far from the eyes of their companions and revealed his first secret to her: hewas both Wolf and Man, and her heart was whole within his breast. His second secret was that she held his heart within her breast, and had since he had first touched her with his power. The two were married there, in the shade of a waterfall, with only the spirits to witness._

 

-

 

The woman ended her tale, hands clasped tight with her lovers. She glanced at him once, a mischievous look sliding across her face. “Do you want to know what Lavellan’s greatest fear was?”

The boy shook free from the spell the story had woven around him. “You know it?” he asked, wide-eyed.

The woman nodded, “spiders.”

“S-spiders?”

The man laughed. “It’s true! She hated spiders of all kinds. It didn’t matter what size, though she was wont to say that the small ones were the worst - you never knew where they might be hiding.”

The boy frowned. “I don’t believe you. No goddess would fear spiders.”

“Well, she likely does not fear them now. For what spider would attack with the Great Wolf near?” the woman leaned into the man’s shoulder, a tiny, satisfied smile upon her face.

“The Great Wolf feared dying alone, but what is there to fear, with his goddess at his side?” the man turned his head, pressing his forehead tenderly against her temple.

The urchin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It was all a little much for a little boy who still thought of girls as having cooties. The couple noticed, and pulled apart as easily as they had come together.

 

-

 

**In the epilogue, the urchin sneaks the couple into the gardens of Fen’Harel. In this original version, they get caught and the couple has to prove their identity. Upon reflection, it is way too over the top. Fun, but not really realistic for a couple that is obviously trying to avoid notice. Well, in my mind they were trying to avoid notice. Hence the reason this was cut.**

“Who are you!”

The urchin squealed and dove for the exit, leaving the couple behind. But the woman snagged him by his collar, holding him aloft without effort as she turned to face the guard bearing down on them.

“Let me go!” the boy hissed, twisting to get free.

“Not a chance,” the woman told him pleasantly. Lifting her voice, she spoke to the guard. “Hello! Sorry to disturb, but it seemed silly to pay to enter our own garden. This little imp promised us a way in that wouldn't bother you. Guess he’s not as skilled as he promised after all.” She shook the boy gently and he stopped trying to escape.

 _“Your_ garden?” the guard scoffed. “This is _Fen’Harel’s_ garden. And intruders are charged with a heavy fine. If you cannot pay it, then you get civil service for a year.”

The woman shrugged, “what’s his is mine.”

The man stepped forward. _“Vhenan._ Stop teasing the man.” He turned his attention to the guard, and his rapidly approaching friends, all decked out in impressive matching armor. “Is there a sentinel here?”

“There is,” the guard said reluctantly.

“Then we would like to undergo the trial, please.” The man folded his arms behind his back, the picture of poise and control.

“You…”

The guards all shared and anxious glance. Then one, decked out in armor of slightly higher quality than the rest, stepped forward. “My name is Captain Fen’Harel. I would be glad to escort you to the sentinel.”

“You have two choices,” she told the boy, setting him down and placing both hands on his shoulders as she once again knelt to look him in the eye. “One, you scamper right now and go home. Your adventure ends here. Two, follow us, silent as a mouse, and see something amazing.”

“How amazing?” the boy asked.

And the woman smiled. “So amazing, that it will be the only tale you will ever want to tell in your whole life.”

The boy swallowed, and nodded.

“Good,” she told him, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. Then she turned and fell in step with her lover. _“Captain_ Fen’Harel?” the woman asked, deeply amused.

The Captain blushed to the tips of his pointed ears. “It is the name I was given at birth,” he said. “It’s common enough these days.”

The man, never one to simply tolerate teasing, spoke up. “And what of Lavellan? How often are children named after the goddess?”

One of the women, with a greatsword strapped to her back, fell back a few steps. Not quite enough to be walking beside the couple, but close enough to converse. “My name is Lavellan,” she said in an embarrassed voice. “I have an aunt with the same name as well.”

The woman’s smile expanded until it lit up her whole face. “I think that’s a wonderful name.”

The guardsman ducked her head, skin flaming. “Thank you, my lady.”

The urchin, trotting behind the group of adults, watched the conversation with keen eyes. He might not understand everything that was going on, but he knew it was very important. Within a very short time, they reached the main chapel, where objects of interest from when the god and goddess had walked Thedas were preserved behind glass and charms. The couple lingered, staring at various items, and the boy wondered why the guards did not urge them along. Seeing his interest, the man gestured him forward.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked the boy, pointing to a blackened jawbone threaded on two strands of cheap string.

“A necklace?” the boy said.

The man raised a finger, and laid along the side of his nose, a sly grin upon his lips. “Just so. Fen’Harel wore it when he was fighting the evil wizard from her,” he gestured at the woman, “story.”

“Is it a wolf bone, then?” the boy asked.

The guards listened eagerly to the man’s answer.

“That is the common guess, but no. It is the jawbone of a gryphon.”

A ripple of surprise went through the guards. One of them could be heard to say, “the sentinel said it was wolf!”

The woman smiled, turned to the guards. “Much is lost when a tale is told so many times. Fen’Harel found the bone in a ruin, the last remnant of a most magnificent race, now lost to the ravages of time. He wore it to remember that which was lost.”

“And removed it when he decided to focus upon the future.” The man took the woman’s hand, and they continued through the room.

Eventually, they reached the back, and Captain Fen’Harel went to the side, and pulled a chord. From the back, the first notes of a song resounded as bells sang. The man and woman hummed with the bells, continuing on even after they had fallen silent. All in the room listened with rapt attention, trying to burn these moments into their memory.

A harried-looking dwarf emerged from the back. “Yes, yes? What is it?” he asked, looking impatiently from the Captain to the couple. “Speak, Captain! We have important visitors coming today, and I must be prepared.”

The Captain looked at the couple as if in permission, but turned back to the sentinel awkwardly when the elvhen only looked at him curiously. “These,” he cleared his throat. “This couple has asked to undergo the trial.”

“The trial?” the dwarf turned to face the couple, a disbelieving frown upon his face. “Do you know what you are asking?”

The same exact sly smile spread across the man and woman’s face.

“We do,” the woman said.

The dwarf looked utterly taken aback. “I...see. And if you...pass?”

And now the couple shared a look of compassion. “We are here to observe, child of the stone. Nothing more,” the man assured them all.

The dwarf nodded, his neck stiff with tension. “Very well, this way, if you please.”

The whole group moved through the curtain, the boy creeping in last of all to take up a place along the wall where he could observe the whole room without moving.  

The room was set up very oddly. Brass rings were suspended on long strands of silk from the ceiling, dangling far too high up for any man to jump. More sat loosely in brackets attached to the wall and pillars, some hidden upside down behind stairs that lead from the middle of the room up to nowhere. And the last, a silver one, on a pedestal in the middle of a small body of water, too large to jump.

“The rules?” the woman asked, once she and the man were done looking about the room.

“You must retrieve the rings. Your feet may only leave the ground once from beginning to end. You are not allowed to swim the water.”

The guards began to mumble to themselves.

“Can she fly?”

“Will he carry her?”

“The rings are too high, no way he could toss her!”

The couple only grinned.

“Ready, _vhenan?”_ The woman asked.

The man nodded. He glowed green, the energy swelling and then, it faded away, revealing the massive form of the Great Wolf itself. The occupants of the room let up a great cry, as if they hadn't truly believed and now, suddenly, did. The two at the center of it all ignored them utterly, the woman approaching the Wolf without fear.

“Hello again,” she told the Wolf, her voice warm with love.

The wolf rumbled a greeting, nose pressed to her shoulder.

The woman scratched vigorously behind the closest ear, and the Wolf’s eyes half-closed in bliss. Then she stepped to its side, and he crouched low enough that she could swing herself up onto his back. She bent down low over his shoulders, the fingers of one hand twisted tightly in the fur. The snow did not seem to harm her. The Wolf crouched, waiting on her signal.

“Go!” she cried.

The Great Wolf lunged forward, snapping up the first ring in his jaws with one graceful leap into the air. He tossed his head back, teeth open, and the woman caught it with her hand as they came back down. She laughed as the Wolf sprung away again, bounding off walls and pillars, sometimes grabbing the rings herself, sometimes catching them out of the air when he would toss them at her. The woman tossed one of the rings at the urchin when they ricocheted off the wall above him, calling out a cheerful, “catch!” Soon, only the ring on the pillar beyond the water remained.

Energy contained, the Wolf approached the water at an easy walk, continuing to step out over the water as if it were land. The watchers let out a cry of dismay, expecting a tumble, but ice formed beneath the great paws as soon as they touched the water. The occupants let out a relieved breath, and the woman laughed and laughed.

“You vain creature!” she accused him, and the wolf huffed a laugh.

He stepped daintily across the water, and neither of them got so much as a drop of water on them. He took the last ring between his teeth, turning and pacing back the way they had come. Only once they were back on the tiles did the ice melt, returning to the water in one great splash.

The woman slid from the wolf’s back, breathless with laughter, and dumped the bronze rings at the feet of the dwarf. The Great Wolf placed his prize atop the pile, the silver unmarked by teeth.

Magic shimmered, and the Wolf was once more a Man.

  
“Well?” the woman said, eyes bright, fingers clasped before her as if she were any other petitioner.


End file.
